There are buds and tiny leaves waiting to pop open here and there on the otherwise bare branches of my lone backyard tree. The ash is the only tree that survived the arson fire we had at my home last summer but it was heavily scorched. I lost my beloved fig and my delicate apricot trees. I looked pretty silly standing in the back yard stroking my soot blackened trees with tears running down my face.
I ordered 3 new fig trees last weekend. They are supposed to ship tomorrow. I’m going to plant them tightly together – I love multi-trunk trees but no one sells them like that. Imperfection has beauty in my eyes.
Except when it is applied to me. Imperfection glares angrily back at me when I look in the mirror. Dangling breasts, sagging stomach, and big liver spots on my face remind me that spring is for the young.
I see beautiful, vibrant older women in television commercials and I’m saddened. I will never be able to look like them without a whole lot of plastic surgery and since I am one of those working poor who will never be able to afford retirement, I will remain as I am.
My husband and I have decided that when we “celebrate” our 25th wedding anniversary (in 5½ years) and our only child is on her own (hopefully), we will then divorce and go our own way. His eye is toward romance and idealized love that I hope he finds because my experience tells me that it is only found in fiction. An end to my marriage has been decided in the spring sunshine and I turn towards planting my fig trees.
I think I’ll name them Larry, Moe, and Curly. The Three Stooges and me.