Here is my annual summer view of Cape Cod Bay where the sea meets the sky.
It is a bitter sight.
So many stories of life and love and joy and family have taken place on the sands of the sea between low and high tides.
And then?
It’s the story of the beach that broke my heart in two and shattered it into a million pieces.
A story of loss.
Sad story.
A story that gives me such pain that I tear up every time I try to write it.
Even now – as my hands hover over the keyboard – I want to remove them. I want to tell my fingers not to type words. I want to tell them it’s so hard, and I don’t want to share, and I don’t want to put the words on the page.
But this summer? This summer at the Cape, something happened that was so wonderful and so wonderful and so full of hope that it brought some relief from that devastating pain.
The story begins with this.
Blue hydrangea.
I don’t remember ever going to the Cape without hydrangeas.
Along with sun-ins, Barbara Cartland novels, flip flops, tank tops and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, it was one of those things that was always present every summer.
My father planted a small hydrangea bush next to our house and assumed that the sandy soil of Cape Cod would do the trick.
In sad news?
It wasn’t.
It was probably the most pathetic hydrangea bush the Cape had ever seen. It never really bloomed and was super leggy and generally uncooperative. One year, the plant had bushes and bushes and bushes of leaves that appeared, and we were all very hopeful.
But not a single bloom or flower was visible anywhere.
Despite everything, my father liked that hydrangea bush.
Hydrangeas were her favorite flowers – especially the blue ones.
He was very proud of it.
He watered it and cut off the branches that did not bloom and encouraged it. I think it was his favorite place to solve all his problems. In the evenings, he would water the lawn and check on the yard….
….and talk to the hydrangea bush.
They had a long, long conversation, confided to an old friend. I was never sure what he said or what was in his heart.
But I know the hydrangea flowers heard every word.
And then one day….suddenly….on a sunny afternoon on a picnic on this beach on a summer day in late July….
My father began to struggle.
He said he didn’t feel well and was having trouble and told everyone he needed to leave the beach and go home and rest.
But he never made it.
He collapsed and was rushed to a local hospital, where they diagnosed him with a fatal brain aneurysm. He never realized. He never said goodbye. He never talked or laughed or smiled or made us feel that our family is the most special family in the entire universe.
And six days later…
…the most wonderful, incredible Hydrangea Whisperer passed away.
After that, I’m not sure the hydrangea bush ever fully recovered. It turned into sticks with few leaves.
After my father died, no one really paid attention to him.
No one watered it or trimmed it or watered it anymore.
We couldn’t.
Our hearts were very sad.
My husband planted some more hydrangeas in the front of the house and we closed the chapter on the hydrangea bush by the back door.
I thought that was the end.
I thought it was over.
until.
Until this summer when I rounded the corner out the back door….
….and saw this.
A huge giant blue hydrangea bush.
A perfect border of hydrangea flowers.
Each branch.
Each stem.
Brimming with flowers. I couldn’t believe it. What in the world happened?
As if my father knew. He knew that summers in the Cape were very challenging for all of us.
He knew his family was struggling.
He knew we needed a sign.
He knew we needed hope that it was still here among the burning grass and the sea breeze and the summer clouds floating in the sky.
If I could have hugged that giant hydrangea bush, I would have.
Instead?
I did the next best thing.
I cut half a dozen stems from those wonderful, incredible hydrangea blooms.
And when I filled the vase with flowers and placed it in my room, I smiled quietly to myself and a little leap of joy took place in my heart…..
….because another hydrangea frenzy had begun. 🙂
I am my father’s daughter.
With all his stories in my heart;
I miss you, dad.
And I always will.
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