The sun goes down,
the earth goes round,
another year has gone.
The children at the Montessori school sing this little ditty when it’s someone’s birthday. The birthday child holds a globe and ceremoniously walks around a lit candle, one circle for each year of life.
We’ve had eighteen rotations now. Eighteen times that the earth has travelled around the sun. Eighteen summers, winters, autumns and springs. I know this because the popcorn tress are in full blossom again and they remind me.
All winter long, the Bradford Pear hides its identity under bare limbs of plain gray bark. The month of March arrives with just the right amount of spirit and light and suddenly, in an instant, the kernels of hope burst into blossom and radiant splendor.
Eighteen years ago, my father shed his earthly disguise and the popcorn trees remember.