That old tree has been in the backyard far longer than I have been breathing. Far longer than my grandmother’s been breathing, actually, who grew up in the house in which the tree stands. You could call it a tradition, the way my family travels an hour up north to see my grandmother on any occasion they can find an excuse for. I don’t mind in the slightest though, seeing Grandma is always delightful as she could ramble on for days of her stories, experiences and lessons while I listened attentively and eagerly. In my younger years I remember my eyes lighting up whenever I saw her face. She reminded me of peace and blissfulness, seeing her put me at ease. You can’t quite describe and capture the feeling you get when you’re with someone like Grandma. You just know it.
Despite the affection and love I carry for Grandma, there is one thing she constantly talks about, the old magnolia tree out back. Her descriptions of the tree are vivid and paint a lovely picture, however the symbolism that she associates it with could never quite grasp me. I’ve tried to understand where she’s coming from, but it’s hopeless trying to reach something so paramount to her that does not equate with me. ‘You’ll realize when you’re older. Just be patient.’ She would remind me perpetually. Patience still stands with me, however I feel it draining quicker and quicker.
I arrive at the ever so familiar red door, knock three consecutive times, and await to see Grandma’s beaming face, as if she didn’t just see me less than three weeks prior. I await at the door patiently, studying its grooves and dips, the chipping paint, and the golden handle to which my reflection is distorted. I used to giggle when I saw my warped face on the doorknob. Now I’ve grown accustomed to it. I hear slow footsteps approaching, and already begin to wear my greeting smile.
“Sophie!” Grandma shrieks as the door swings open abruptly. We embrace in a close and comforting hug, one that ends too soon, as she goes to hug my two other siblings. I walk in the house in which I have spent more than half of my life in, the scent of cookies and pine wafting through my nose. I glance at the antique furniture that Grandma refuses to get rid of, the pictures of families on the mantle of the fireplace that no one uses, and out the small brown-rimmed window in the living room, the renowned magnolia tree. Grandma turns her head to see me staring down at the tree, and she mumbles behind me, “It’s in full bloom. Perfect, isn’t it? Just perfect.”
I nod in agreement and admiration for it. Though I don’t understand it, I can at least acknowledge the exquisite presence of it. The presence of all the blooming flowers and plants, for that matter.
“Let’s take a walk down the path,” Grandma announces to me with enthusiasm. “I reckon this is one of the prettiest days of the year. Why not?” I look back to see my family is already done hauling their luggage inside.
“Okay. That sounds good,” I reply, setting my backpack on the ground. I head near the back of the house where the stubborn sliding door lies. It takes great strength to be able to move that burdensome door. Only last year was I able to haul it open in the absence of assistance. As I pull open the sliding door, I expect to be hit with an icy breeze that makes my skin tense and my eyes squint. However, I am gracefully met with a warm spring breeze, one that dances across my face with pleasure. The scent of pine has left my system, replaced with the exuberant smell of flowers and pollen. For once in a long 6 months, my ears are met with the sound of birds chirping, bees buzzing, and the stream that runs through Grandma’s backyard. During the winter the stream freezes up, which can be fun to play on, but it doesn’t compare to the raw sound of water rushing through.
As I stand my ground there, taking the beauty in, I can tell Grandma’s waiting for me to move so she can pass through as well. I take a step right, allowing her to feel the feelings that spring brings you. I can tell she feels it too. We’ve always had that kind of bond, the kind that feels so intimate and subtle that it’s just perfect.
She leads me through the massive porch and down the stairs, where the path that has marked its place here forever still remains. It runs through this massive garden, crossing every crevice that one would want to see. I stare down at the path in front of me, studying its discolored and mismatching pebbles and engravings, the narrowness of it. Suddenly Grandma breaks my train of thought.
“Can you believe there’s still snow here? It’s so stubborn, it won’t go away!” I attempt to search for the snow in question and find a small patch, maybe the size of a toad, on the far end of the porch beams.
“Grandma, the snow is practically gone,” I inform her. “Why does it matter that there is the tiniest patch? I barely noticed it.” She sighs softly.
“I don’t think you’d understand yet.” She says looking up at the greenness of the trees above.
“I’m sure I would now. Can you try?” I reply looking at her. She looks at me back, our blue eyes locking into each other. She sighs again, more audible this time.
“I can try.” She clears her throat and stays silent for a minute, the only sound coming from our synchronized steps on the path and the water from the stream, with the occasional chirping of a bird in the distance. Until we reach the corner of the garden where the magnolia tree comes into vision does she begin talking.
“My view on winter and spring is different than what most people think. They think of the weather, the warm air, and the flowers. While it is normal for these aspects to be associated with spring, I believe many are missing out on the true meaning of it.” She says to me. Our view of the magnolia tree is growing. I patiently wait for her to continue.
“When flowers bloom, it means they are starting fresh. They get yet another chance to enhance and show off their vivid and divine characteristics. This signals to me a fresh start. A new beginning.” She says staring off into the abundances of flowering plants that encircle us. “Sometimes I almost feel jealous of them. They get the opportunity to start again in a new manner. We are often denied that opportunity.” She chuckles to herself softly.
“It’s not just the flowers that enhance this coat of beginning, it’s the whole season altogether. That’s why I grow irritated when stubborn snow won’t vanish with the spring’s opening. It reminds me of stubborn aspects of our past, things that we can’t seem to rid ourselves of. No matter how warm the air gets, how green the atmosphere presents itself to be, some patches of snow will not accept their departure.” She pauses, as if the gears in her brain are churning out her next speech. “That’s precisely why I so dearly adore the magnolia tree. It stays in bloom not nearly as long as other flowers, merely 2 weeks or so. The time in which it is though is precious. I want to preserve it, hold it in a glass jar where it will stay alive forever. Its colours are just ravishing and angelic, however it may not hold up to this description through a photograph. That’s the beauty of it – it’s just something you have to experience and see. When the tree eventually begins to shed its petals, they get everywhere. Look,” She points underneath the tree to the pool of rose and white coloured petals laying gracefully, as I watch two other petals dance their way in the air towards the ground to conjoin with the others. “This can signal that although change may be present, it’s just moving onto the next stage. To us, the next stage of life. The petals get swept away by the breeze, left in all different directions. The change is purely alternating its course. However we will always be remembered of the good in our lives, as the tree never fails to bloom its colors every year.”
I stare into the pollination distance, her words simmering in my mind. My eyes finally opened to a perspective of the tree that I had not known before. The petals and greenery remained peacefully in their state, yet it now carried a distinct aspect in my eyes. In the eyes of which the flowers stand, they shall present themselves however wished to be presented. The power that that holds is so massive – that’s what Grandma’s been trying to say all these years. It is not what the tree means, but how the tree is special to an individual’s self. I slowly tilt my head towards my Grandma, as the corners of my mouth move upwards. “I get it, Grandma. I do.”
She beamed back at me, a look only Grandma can make precious. “I knew you would, Sophie.” I rest my head gently on her shoulder as I breath in yet another breath of the thick spring air. We continue to walk across the elegant garden, our feet synchronized against the pebbles. I now see Spring as not only a season of joy, but a season of new beginnings, with a profound sense of tranquility.