I feared the hedge would die.
One day, in the middle of the chaos, I dared to dream that the hedge would make it.
I imagined how we would later tell the story of the dying hedge in our front yard as a metaphor of how you faced down your near-death experience with cancer, but you came back with vigor to live out the rest of your days with renewed focus and perspective.
We would explain how the dry branches appeared beyond resuscitation. It was that pesky, destructive white fly that snuck in under the radar and spread relentlessly beneath the abundant beautiful green leaves and orange hibiscus blossoms.
We would remember how the first sign of trouble was the lack of new growth. Scraggly branches were revealed as leaves and flowers refused to regenerate. I would explain how we worked diligently to save the hedge, washing off the white flies and pruning back those dead branches.
We would describe how it looked bad for a while, but in the end the hedge came back. It blossomed.
This was the story that should have been … but reality went another way.
The hedge lived,
but you died.
The orange blossoms mocked me.
Until one day I realized,
the Hedge could be me.