by Caroline Snider
The family that owned Wandering Acres before us planted these peonies and raised their babies in this house, on this land we now call our own. And every year as May turns to June, they bloom so spectacularly that my heart feels a little giddy.
Last year, with eyes stinging from tiredness and a babe fresh from the womb, I wandered somewhat deliriously out into the yard and brought back with me handfuls of these blooms, and there they sat in a jar on the shelf in the nursery dutifully watching over that first tender week as a family of three.
And I think about all the ways we mark time and how beautiful it all is. As it runs too fast through our fumbling fingers. And I think about how I want to bottle this moment. This now. Where we are all here. So deep in bloom.And this evening as I dot them all over the house, I think about the other babies that were born within the walls of this old home and how they learned to crawl on these creaky wooden floors, and then one day before too long after the peonies has bloomed and faded, bloomed and faded, they left through the green front door that always gets a little stuck in the heat. And I think about all the ways we mark time and how beautiful it all is. As it runs too fast through our fumbling fingers. And I think about how I want to bottle this moment. This now. Where we are all here. So deep in bloom. Because I don’t know, these really are the days.
