Spring is a beautiful time in Washington, and in old neighborhoods like ours in particular. It's a short riot of color between long stretches of drab. The beauty comes and then goes so quickly that one is nearly oblivious to it as a child, or takes it for granted. I've needed a few dozen repetitions to truly appreciate it. Don't blink or you'll miss it, I tell myself each year (an attitude which paradoxically makes it harder to simply enjoy the season when it's here). It's phenomena like this that make time seem to pass so much more quickly as an adult. Love of spring is an altogether different kind of bliss than that of ignorance. All things fade away, so cherish them while you can.
These are azaleas from our back yard, so old and overgrown that they've collided. God only knows what they looked like when they were smaller and organized. Now it's an embarrassment of riches. We can take almost no credit for these immense bushes. They were here when we bought the house eight years ago, and all we've done for them since is pull down the occasional vine. They explode asynchronously over the course of several weeks, like slow-motion fireworks. The rest of the year they simply take up space and we talk idly about yanking them out. But how could we, really? At least they'll provide a brief haven to the fireflies in a couple months.
There used to be a beautiful flowering tree right in front of this group of plants, but it began to die the year after we moved in, and we finally had it removed last fall. Helen had the foresight to ask the workers to stack some of the remains for us, so we enjoyed it again as firewood through the winter. We burned the last logs just a few days ago, and the maids cleaned the fireplace today, so the tree is finally gone now except for a small cross-section of a branch that Ellis asked me to cut and save.