my hydrangea

When Dad died the coolest gift I got was a plant. A hydrangea. In the Pacific Northwest we get rain, a lot of rain. We have a lot of water. Hydrangeas grow with little sun and lots of water. They get big and strong and are basically invincible.

Last fall I planted this tiny little thing that my friend Amy gave me, and over the winter it withered into a brittle, leafless, brown clump of twigs.

Imagine my happiness as I look at it now.

It's growing.

It's green.

It's alive.

And every time I look at it, I think of Dad. I love it. I call it my Dad plant, or my Dad hydrangea, or my Dad bush. It's Dad, and it's alive, and it'll be strong and healthy.

I miss Dad. I'm at the beginning of this ugly thing called divorce, and I sometimes just wish I had a male who I trusted that I could call up. I have friends and their husbands, but no one that's "mine." Dad was always mine, and my husband was mine. Now I'm going at it alone.

I'm so grateful that my little plant has new life. It makes me think of him and it gives me hope.