“It’s surprising how much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time.”
- Barbara Kingsolver
Earlier this week my magnolia tree sprang to life. Blossoms are popping in quantities, so there’s hope.
My magnolia is spectacular. It’s easily a third the size of the house, and in the years since we’ve been living here it has insinuated itself onto nearly half of the two-car driveway, reached up to the bedroom window, and wrapped itself around the corner, allowing my neighbour the first glimpse.
It’s the harbinger of spring, the first thing to bloom after the crocus. The buds, which lie dormant all winter, erupt in a froth of white star-shaped blossoms. The show lasts for about two weeks, at which point the tree, dripping with flowers, gives them over to the wind or the rain.
While it lasts I regularly bury my nose in the riot of flowers and get totally hammered on their pepper-sweet fragrance, as do a legion of neighbourhood tree sniffers. Sometimes complete strangers knock on the door to exclaim over the magnolia. I’m thrilled every time by our shared wonder of the first tangible relief from our long winter.
Now we can all get on with it.
The tree imagery continues.