The Final Bloom

Until moving to Memphis four years ago, I had always said that my favorite season was autumn.  Cool weather, apple cider, and changing leaves are nice and all, but after experiencing my first Memphis spring, I was a changed woman.  Spring is my season. 

Memphis is a beautifully green city for the majority of the year.  I never get tired of the towering ancient trees that seem to form tunnels throughout the town.  But when those tunnels become dappled by brilliant yellow forsythia, hot pink azaleas, powder pink cherries, lavender wisteria, and stark white dogwoods, the city is simply breathtaking.  The humidity--and with it our mosquito dictators for the summer--has yet to take charge, gentle breezes flow through my open windows, and every day has a fresh energy to it that makes you want to get moving and spend its entirety outdoors.  

When we moved into our little rent house, we had no idea that some of Memphis' spring bounty resided in our own yard.  When our dogwood bloomed that first spring, it literally took my breath away every time I opened our front door or windows.  It was as though I had forgotten all about it in my sleep and woke up each morning to find the most brilliant surprise in my own front yard.  That spring, I remember thinking how thankful I was that I would get to enjoy that tree for four springs, and how sad I would be to see it bloom for the last time during our fourth year.  

Last July, when I discovered that I was expecting our second child in early April, one of my first thoughts was that this baby would likely arrive when the dogwood is in bloom.  I pictured a family portrait on the porch, my little family of four framed by brilliant white dogwood and azalea blooms.  Spring seemed very far away, as did the reality of all the changes it would bring.  

And now our majestic tree blooms once more.  As its tiny buds began to form, a little early due to our unseasonably warm weather, I found myself willing them to stop.  To slow down.  It was too soon.  The appearance of those full white blooms were a symbol of more change than I was ready to handle, and I wanted them to just stop.  Because when the dogwood blooms for the fourth time, it's time to go.  When the dogwood blooms for the fourth time, it's time to have a baby.  When the dogwood blooms for the fourth time, it's time to change life as we know it.  

But the blooms came anyway, of course.  I stood on the porch as Jonathan walked up the lawn for a quick lunch break.  He commented on the beautiful tree, and how much he will miss it.  And there, barefoot and nine months pregnant, I burst into tears.  I told him that it can't be blooming.  That it's just too soon.  That the blooms mean everything is happening.  That change is coming, and that I'm just not ready.  He hugged me, because even though I am hormonal, this was not a crazy pregnant lady talking.  He feels the same way too.  And so we stood for a moment, gazing at the tree that represents so much.  

I had been concerned that the warm weather would mean a less than spectacular blooming season, as had happened during our second year here.  But it was as if the tree knew I needed it to put on a show one last time; the blooms are fuller, thicker, and more fantastic than they have ever been.  Each morning I open all of the windows and the front door, and we spend as much time out front as we possibly can.  It will continue to bloom, of course, for many years to come (at least we hope it will, as this particular dogwood is very old), but we will not be here to see it.  Some other family will move into this house, and I hope they spend lots of time sitting on the porch swing, watching the cooky Midtown passersby, admiring the overgrown sunflowers across the street, listening to the neighborhood saxophone player, rocking their newborn baby, and later perching that little boy on the branches of the great dogwood tree to capture a beautiful springtime memory.   

In conclusion, does anyone know how to uproot a dogwood tree and move it across two states?