I couldn’t shake the joy of wildflowers that spring. Bluebonnets, buttercups, Indian paintbrushes bloomed in abundance roadside, painting the world blue, pinkish white, and red-orange.  Texas dogwoods added their soft hues while honeysuckle vines slowly unfolded along fence and abandoned gate.

The land bore scars like we all did: great gashes where a tornado fell century-old oaks, where a shed had once stood, and where a trailer had moved several yards east. I saw the blossoms more: of the dewberry vines creeping back, of daffodils left unattended for a handful of springs, and the light green of budding elms.  Clover grew thick near ditches and away from cattle’s reach while Bahia grass stretched across pastures.