When I got home from work today, Larry asked me if I had seen the peony blooming in our yard. I hurried over to it, snapped a few photos, and inhaled the scent.
It transported me back nearly a lifetime ago.
My grandmother on my dad’s side died when I was 11, but I have wonderful memories of spending time with her. We shelled peas, snapped green beans, and wrapped Christmas presents together. I napped to the tick tock of the mantle clock she and my granddad bought on their wedding day; it doesn’t work anymore but it sits in our house, silent and proud.
I can almost see her, sitting in late 1970s-style woven fabric folding chair, shaking the foot that was on her seemingly always crossed leg.
She loved her flowers, and the way I remember it peonies were among her favorites. I don’t even want to know if that’s not right; I’ve loved my peonies for years and always thought of her.
That sweet scent stirred sweet memories, and I felt the warmth of her love wrap around my heart. That’s a pretty good ending to my day. To any day.