It’s Okay to Bloom Again

Dad called me every year when his azaleas were blooming. He always wanted me to come over and see them before they returned to their inconspicuous, boxwood-like appearance. Sometimes I made it over, sometimes not. If I couldn’t get there in time, dad took pictures of them, had them developed (smartphone user he was not) and delivered the photos to me with the pride of a kindergartener at show and tell. 

Last week, driving up my parents’ driveway for one of the last few times, I saw a patch of pink by the carport. It didn’t register at first, but there they were, as vibrant as ever — my dad’s prized azaleas in full bloom. I immediately parked my car and ran over to them like you would an old friend. 

All I wanted was to tell my dad how beautiful they were and give him a hug. But I couldn’t. Standing in the driveway where I rode my bike as a kid and drove for the first time as a teenager, all that was left was me and a bed of azaleas that shared the same memories. 

When I was younger, I relished the chance to be alone at my parents’ house. After school, I could watch General Hospital, eat Cheez Doodles, live what any teenager in the ‘80s would deem “the good life.” If it was a summer morning, I could watch as many game shows as I wanted in a row — while drinking a Pepsi. (Anyone remember Sale of the Century?) Back then I couldn’t imagine life being any other way, and I certainly couldn’t imagine the three of us not living together on Shoreview Drive. Things change.

Ever since my dad passed away in November, I’ve been striking the set that served as our family’s home for 42 years. Sifting through yellowed elementary school programs, photos of birthday parties and racks filled with everything from the matching dresses mom made us for the 1976 bicentennial to my prom dresses to the Carolina blue dress she wore at my wedding. Every corner conjures a memory. Every chotchke reminds me of a trip. Without fail, the furniture in the living room takes me back to our Christmas Eves, where the three of us would take turns opening presents for each other after church. 

Once the floor was covered with empty boxes and wrapping paper, dad would sneak behind the tree for two envelopes. One for mom, and one for me — money for after-Christmas sales. Sure, I loved scoring a marked-down Swatch at Carolina Mall with my mom, but the best part was watching him sneak up to the tree like we had no idea what was going on. He got such joy out of it. The same joy he gleaned from his azaleas.

As the sting wore off from seeing dad’s favorite part of spring, I walked the perimeter of the house, looking for any other flowers that had decided to join the party. No, only the azaleas, always the stars of the show. Staring at them more, I realized what a miracle it was that they had bloomed at all. I hadn’t touched them since dad died, and I’m not sure if dad remembered to prune them last year. I hoped that they would make an appearance, but I understood if they wanted to take a break. They lost dad, too. 

But instead of sulking in a wilted state, these pink miracles did their job. They reminded me that things can be good, even beautiful again. They gave me a moment with my dad that I so desperately needed. They made me cry as they gave me permission to move forward.

When you’re mired in grief, it’s hard to see the beauty in anything, much less the future. Glimpses of light are rare, and hope seems to be a novel idea created for other people. You forget how to have fun, how to dream, how to live, how to be. 

Dad’s azaleas reminded me that there’s more to come in my life. And no, it won’t all be great. It can’t be, and that’s okay. The crummy parts make the good parts shimmer, and knowing that something somewhere is about to blossom carries us through the in-between. I’m grateful for a dad who loved azaleas, and I’m grateful I got to see them one more time.