Spring has arrived. I know it because the other day, I noticed that my favorite bush in Woodside has resurrected from its grave that was the last three seasons.
It was a dark day last May when I drove down 55th Street and slowed down purposely to take a good look at that forsythia. To my dismay, it was gone. Where did it go? It couldn’t have died already? In a matter of days, that bright yellow bush, which was the highlight of my drive home in what can otherwise be a dreary and lonely city, had withered away. A strange sadness came over me that day. Why was I relying on that bush to bring me joy? Perhaps it was a peculiar period in life. Maybe things seemed hopeless. Maybe I was starting to notice that life isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Maybe I was looking for meaning. And that forsythia stood for all that was unspoken. But it was gone.
I moved on.
A year went by.
April 2009 came around, and I drove down 55th Street again for the umpteenth time, and something caught my eye. The forsythia! In all its bright yellow wonder and glory, it was back. Like it had never left. Without announcing itself, without any hints of returning, there it stood.
Then I knew. Death is not the end.
Life…comes after death.