My evening primrose, or moonflowers, open around 8:30 – 9:00 every night all summer. In the morning they are wilted; the early sun is too much.
I got my moonflowers from my friend “Sprig,” who took me under her wing when I was growing up. I had a great life with my four sibs in a central Pennsylvania Mayberry RFD. But even the best lives need someone to talk to and I talked to Sprig. She lived on my small town’s main drag and lived to garden, she and her two sisters, Old Maids, three. (“Old Maid” is a pejorative now, but back then it was a term of endearment, and I use it with respect and affection. They are all now with the Lord.)
Sprig raised moonflowers and we’d watch them bloom. The buds swelled and as twilight approached, started to shake and open, right before your eyes.
Moonflowers are very hardy, but this past winter was the most brutal in 20 years. When spring finally got her courage up I looked for my moonflowers. Only one had made it.
“They froze out,” I told my mother, who also has some from Sprig.
“I’ll give you some,” she said. I was relieved.
But tonight, as I cleared away grass and weeds from the moonflowers’ place, I found them. Tiny and nondescript, I almost pulled them out by mistake. I wiped the tears away. “Sprig, they’re back,” I told the sky. “They came back.”
I’ve experienced some pretty harsh spiritual and emotional winters. I wasn’t sure I’d make it. (You know that feeling.)
“And Sprig,” I said, “You’d be pleased to know I’m back too.”