Friday, March 17, 2017
Year after year, it's the same - my plum trees bloom and I can't tear myself away from them, heading outside just to stand underneath, inhaling deeply and staring up into branches thick with frothy, pink blossoms. I take a lot of photos, which look about the same every year, playing with camera settings to try to capture exactly what I see. I want to remember them in brassy summer and in brown winter. I stand there for a long time. I probably look a little strange to the neighbors, but I think they're used to it by now. I'm always outside taking a picture of something - sky, trees, mesa and mountain. Things inside need my attention, but I stay just a minute longer as the petals take flight on a sudden breeze, coming back in the house with petals in my hair and in the folds of my shirt. There are some stuck to the bottoms of my shoes and I will find them later, dried stickily onto the tiles in the kitchen. Another year, another brief season of pink petals everywhere. My plum trees are important to how I mark time - the seasons pass but the years pass even faster. Spring is here again.