It was an ordinary morning in late May, when most of the spring blooms had already come and nearly gone. I stood at the bay window at the back of the house, letting the spotty stream of morning sun bathe and warm my bare toes.
As I stood, I began to notice the towering tree in the backyard with new eyes. It was a broken, leaning, lopsided tree, and it looked as if the next strong wind might tear it to the ground. But, that morning, I blinked and I saw what my eyes must have been missing for days—the tree had sprouted teardrop-shaped leaves as large as melons, flashes of vibrant green against the sky, and it was clothed in bright white flowers.
“Wow,” I muttered, that deep ache of instinct pushing the breath from my lungs.
“That tree is so beautiful.”
Pale petals dotted the yard, and each whisper of the breeze swept more from those branches like fallen petal rain. It was a Catalpa tree, and it was in full bloom.
My husband, who stood washing dishes at the sink, chimed in:
“And you thought it was dead.” …Keep reading!