My husband brought me a bouquet of green the other day. Rich green leaves rose to bulbs about to burst, and he told me he was thinking I might like to watch them bloom. From the color peeking through their tips I could tell there would be white-pink lilies and some other flower the color of my toenail polish, a deep midnight blue. At the time I was just grateful for his tender thoughtfulness, I had been having a rough day in the hospital and knowing he understood that was comforting.
In these last few days the sun has had its way with the sky, clearing out the rain clouds and bursting through with a soft yet brilliant spring light. My large hospital window has been a canvass colored in Carolina blue and puffy white clouds, "Pixar" clouds as I think of them. In the corner of my window the bouquet of flowers has been opening up and today the irises are wide open. They are looking towards the sun and basking happily like teenage sunbathers who have just hit the beach. The only reason I know they are irises is because they opened with a surprise-- not only midnight blue; there is a daub of bright yellow on each petal.
When my Jonathan was born with dimples in his perfect baby cheeks I felt just as an older friend had described: sometimes the finale is better than we could have imagined or asked for.
Samuel and I, Josh, Jonathan, and William are being written into a story and I have this feeling that the next chapter will be much richer than I can imagine. Have you ever bitten into a chocolate cake with an assumptive air, and then you closed your eyes because it tasted so much more delicious than you were expecting? That's how it's going to be, just like the irises with that brush of yellow.
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