Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

-A.E. Housman

 

I have had a fascination with this poem since I first read it in high school English class.  The idea of a cherry tree as a bride may not be unique, but it is lovely, just as the title suggests.  There is nothing better than to stand beneath a flowering tree this time of year, and to gaze heavenward, through blooms aloft, catching that rare moment before a breezy day or spring storm strips them away.

When we first moved into our home eleven years ago, I relished having a cherry tree of my own.  I envisioned placing a lounge chair for reading beneath its protection canopy. Each fall, it is the first to drop its leaves, heralding the cooler weather and earlier sunsets of autumn, and each spring, it is the first to bloom, the hallmark of warm weather to come.

I recall taking pictures of a six month old Julia under its branches; I was so excited to be out and about in springtime after a long winter with a new infant.  Her smiles and baby coos told me she was equally happy to explore the new world outside.

Two years later was also a very long winter.  I waited for my tree, but to no avail.  Mother Nature did not want to release her grip on the Northeast.   I was also heavily pregnant at the time, and was hoping I would not miss her brief blooming.

On a mid-April night it was finally time.  After hours of pacing my couch, I nudged my dozing husband and off we went.  The next morning at 8am Michael arrived.  We spent Easter weekend in the hospital.  My parents brought Julia decked out in her Easter finery to meet her new brother.  She eyed him with a mix of interest and skepticism, before planting a brief kiss on his little forehead.

On Easter Monday, we headed home for the first time as a family of four.  As we rounded the driveway, I saw my tree, decked out in her own Easter finery.  She had waited for us.  We took a picture of new baby Michael under her white fluffy branches, and from that moment on, she became his tree, rather than mine.

He delighted in her failing leaves that autumn, and crawled beneath her branches in early spring, trying to eat the mulch. In March he took his first tentative steps, and from that point was off.

He runs now shovel in hand, digging up worms, and sword fighting with her fallen branches.  He reaches long arms outstretched to her lowest branches, trying to pull himself, wildly swinging like a monkey.  She blooms each year without fail on his birthday.  We now call her his birthday tree.

Today, Michael is five.  He says he is now a whole hand old.  On his tree, white blooms nod gently in the breeze, branches bending under their weight.  The world is awash in newness and greenery, and his tree is decked out in her white Easter finery, each celebrating the renewal and vitality that is spring.   The very essence of spring is Michael, all blustery with whipping winds the one minute, and all the sweetness and light of spring’s first kiss the next.   And regardless of which, there is a youthful energy, a pulsing undercurrent of life that whispers, ‘What’s next?  I’m waiting.  I’m ready for it.’

Happy birthday Michael!  We love you so!