Hydrangeas

At 5:30pm on a Tuesday my husband is planting
hydrangeas.
He is planting twelve
hydrangeas that he bought in a week when we did not really have the money, and I asked if they were an emergency or on sale or going out of business.
This is the season, he says, for planting
hydrangeas.

At 5:30pm on a Tuesday I have been dedicated to a duo of our three daughters for 48 hours,
taking temperatures
measuring Motrin
driving to doctors.
I hear the shed door swing open, the shovel swing down, separating sod from soil.
Why, I wonder, now,
when I am worn down and his work is wound down,
Why now, when I want not to wrangle our whirlwind of wild women for awhile?

But at 5:30pm on a Tuesday, I walk our toddler and tissues to the fence
to peek at what Daddy is planting.
And maybe it is the pollen, or the sweaty sleeplessness with our fevered girls sandwiching my body,
but at 5:30pm on a Tuesday
I start to cry
while I watch him prepare a bed for this hedge of
hydrangeas,
twelve in a row.
Because someday, in another season, there will be pictures posed in
recital regalia and graduation regalia,
prom gowns and wedding gowns
three sisters in a row.
And these
hydrangeas, now small and spare,
may grow to be backdrops and bouquets,
as our gaggle of girls will grow to be graduates and grown ups.

At 5:30pm on such a tired Tuesday,
as I wipe worms of boogies from the baby’s nose,
I am reminded to see what he always sees.

The roots we are planting
The life we are growing
The future season we are making a bed for.

Tell me what you think!