I spent the weekend with the truest of friends. Delights were around every corner, garnished with a kind of conversation that I can never get enough of. But I came home to Forsythia. And that helped. One of the best parts of the southern shore of Massachussetts is the flourishing presence of Forsythia. Windy roads lined with flaming yellow take the edge off of frigid spring days. And grogginess. And wanting a weekend away to last forever.
One day driving along, my mom pointed out a sad Forsythia bush that had recently been shorn, something like the one below. "Forsythia is meant to grow wild," she said. "It is not to be cut back." And now when I see these stubby little versions, I see a lion with his mane cut off.
I am eagerly awaiting my copy of Forsythia & Me to arrive behind the library counter. What a name to have. If do-overs existed, I think Fiona might have been a lovely Forsythia.
I brought back these wonderful cookie cutters for the children from a store called, Whisk. You might say they fell on deaf ears? However, I fast forwarded till the day when they are moving out and I am delicately wrapping their initial in tissue paper. Off, you go! I am sure a fight will then ensue over who gets the Scotty Dog. Maybe that one will stay with me.