The daffodils are in full bloom, filling my yard with creamy white petals with orange centers. Grape hyacinths grow along the house in shades of pink, soft blue, and deep purple. After a long, cool stretch to start the new season there are finally flowers.
Last month I was ill, sequestered from my family. My responsibilities disappeared; the constant leap from one task to the next suddenly gone. I read, I slept, I watched too much basketball. My mornings were free to stay in bed and my evenings stretched as long I wanted them to. There was no making lunches, no bedtime stories. My children said goodnight to me through a closed bedroom door.
The flowers almost feel surprising now, as if my time away from the world has made everything feel different. And in a way it has. I still have not returned to all of my daily tasks and my routine still feels off. Time feels as if it is speeding up. Each day is warmer and I know that spring will soon shift to summer.
Baseball season has started for my children, my seeds for future flowers have been sown, the first draft of my novel is complete. Time is still moving and I am moving with it, but not without feeling behind.
I try to reconnect with the world. I take walks, the sunshine warm on my face. I arrange flowers, mixing fresh spring blooms with dried flowers from last season. I knit and write and spend time with my family. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’ll always feel behind.
The back garden needs clearing, the vines and weeds already trying to take over. Soon my dahlias will be planted, wrinkly tubers that have rested all winter. Soon they will sprout, soon they will be knee high, and then even taller. Soon they will be blooming again. I only hope that I can do the same.