THE DARLING BUDS
Just like the drifting blossom, letting go means new beginnings
OCTOBER t is to be a spring wedding, held in the village church, the third Saturday in May. There is a whirlwind of excitement, planning and anticipation. But as I look at you, your face flushed, eyes bright, I think… it is too soon. How can I let you go? I stare out of the cottage window at our little Japanese weeping cherry tree, its leaves gilding the autumn day with bronze, yellow and burnt orange, my mind in turmoil.
For these past nine years… ever since… it has been just the two of us. Mother and daughter. It has been… beautiful. A strange word, perhaps, to describe a relationship between a mother and daughter. But in spite of the occasional disagreements, teenage angst and rebellion, it has been beautiful. Companionship, laughter, and fun; our lives woven together.
“May,” I said to her – just once – hesitating a little. “Seven months isn’t long to plan a wedding.”
She looked at me, dark eyes dancing. “Why wait?” she said.
Deep in my heart, I knew she was right. James is a well-respected teacher at the village school. His kindness, honesty, tenderness, and care will prove him a good husband. He is everything I could wish for her. But letting go will be hard…
INOVEMBER
It is becoming colder. The leaves on our weeping cherry begin to fall, eddies of piquant colour in the emerald grass grown long. A cosy log fire, apple wood scented, flames flickering scarlet, sulphur yellow and rose. Some days we walk, the three of us, along the lanes into the earthy woods beyond. Often, they walk together, the two of them. Is this how it is going to be? Will I have no place?
DECEMBER
James has booked the honeymoon – a fortnight in Italy, by Lake Como. Their villa looks utterly enchanting.
The branches of the weeping cherry are almost bare now, etched starkly against the pale wintry sky. The leaves puddle below; curled and faded.
JANUARY
It has begun to snow, lacy flakes against the cottage windows, the garden mysterious and hushed. The cherry tree is magical, its ebony branches glistening, edged icily, snow soft plopping.
FEBRUARY
She asks me to help choose her wedding dress.
“Not white,” she murmurs softly. Golden Days is a vintage clothing boutique just beyond the village. We visit frequently. We both have a passion for the past, filling our cottage with old curios bought from antique fairs and auctions.
We find the perfect dress, a 1980’s Laura Ashley, a romantic style in blush pink. We find the perfect bridesmaid’s dress, too, in a deeper pink.
There are pinprick buds of blossom on our weeping cherry tree…
MARCH
We organise a modest reception at our local pub, The White Swan, for friends and close family. A week later I help choose her bridal bouquet. Hand tied pink rosebuds. The pink roses remind me of the cherry tree, the delicate blossoms beginning to open now.
MAY
The bells ring out joyously as we emerge from the church, the breezy morning sparkling with lemon sunlight.
“Such a beautiful bride,” ripple the murmurs from the group of well-wishers gathered at the lychgate.
And she is beautiful, my mother…
There are photographs. James and my mother exchange a loving kiss on the steps of the church. I glance over to a corner of the churchyard to a familiar, well-tended grave. The headstone reads: A beloved husband and father.
He died when I was ten. I have his picture by my bed, my father’s arm about my mother in her white wedding gown.
Mum takes a rose from her bouquet and, with James by her side, places the rose gently on the grave.
Letting go… the words are whispered on the wind.
The wedding reception draws to a close. Guests filter from The White Swan to wave off the bride and groom. James has hired a vintage MG sport’s car, open-topped. He helps my mother into the passenger seat then turns and presses something into my hand, his blue eyes warm and loving. “A present for the most gorgeous bridesmaid,” he says.
It’s a silver bracelet, chased with leaves and flowers. I love it.
Later that evening they call, enthusing happily about their villa and the spectacular Lake Como.
“I’ve already booked again for August,” says my stepfather and adds, with a smile in his voice, “For the three of us.”
I gaze out at the weeping cherry tree, thinking back to autumn, the jewelled leaves starting to fall. To winter, the tree stark and bare. To early spring, new buds emerging and to May now, glorious tresses of double pink blossoms trailing from the pendulous branches.
Letting go can be the promise of a new beginning…