Reason to Be

It’s the days of the crape myrtles. They’re all in bloom. Pink petals litter the drive. Everywhere you look there are flowers. White by the back door. Pink in the back garden. Pink in the front, white in the front, purple, too. The tree of summer. We’ve had them at every house we’ve owned. I’ll always have them. And I’ll never tire of the smooth bark and their delicate blooms.

Unfortunately, they’re invasive, a transplant from a foreign county, an immigrant brought to these shores by a French botanist. Oh my, what to do? I should probably send them home. But I jest. It’s the quintessential southern tree. Still, I should look for some flowering natives. We already have a golden leadball, but we should probably get a desert willow, too. I wonder why my landscape architect didn’t recommend one? Maybe they’re hard to grow. I’ll have to see about that.

A good sign, I think, to be planting trees at my age, because what are the chances I’ll see them to maturity. Slim, I think. Although, most trees will get to a fair size in ten or fifteen years, and I ought to have that left in my tank. I know the oaks we planted in 2010 are looking good these days and they’ll look really good in another ten years. So, I’m going to bet on my future and find me a dessert willow, or two, because maybe they like company, and don’t we all. And if you have to have something to live for, maybe watching a tree mature is a good bet.