In Maine, despite what the calendar says, we are on the cusp of summer. In less than a month, we’ve gone from darling buds to nearly full-grown leaves on the trees. May is like that.
The same is true of the ferns.
Except for my beloved purple irises, the front garden is mostly foliage. Strangely enough, I love the gardens at this stage, when the slugs and snails have yet to launch an assault, and the Japanese beetles are a month away. The leaves of the plants look so green and fresh and new. While the garden is more beautiful with flowers in July, it is also more tattered.
Spring wild flowers continue to bloom on the lawn and on the edges by the wood.
In the United States, this is Memorial Day weekend, a time when we remember those who have passed. Usually, this involves some kind of gathering, often a barbecue. This year, we will have a small get together with friends, and unless it is pouring, Clif will make his legendary grilled bread. Whatever the weather, I will be making homemade strawberry ice cream.
And I’ll certainly be thinking of loved ones who have passed—my mother, my father, and my dear friend Barbara. They all died too soon, but my love for them continues and will do so until I die.
In this most beautiful of months—for Catholics, the month of Mary—it somehow seems very appropriate to remember those who have passed from this green, green world.