I planted the crepe myrtle last spring. Actually, I did not plant it. I had it planted by someone who knew what he was doing. It was his suggestion that the tree be planted outside one of the windows where it would eventually provide some relief from the western sun that, in July and August, turns the living room into a reasonable facsimile of a sauna.

My professional picked a spot between the chimney and the bay window in the kitchen –  a little nook, a niche, sheltered corner.  He dug the hole according to the guidelines known by every subscriber to Southern Living (“three times wider than the root ball, but no deeper than the root ball itself”), loosened the roots slightly, and dropped the tree into the hole.  He then patted the soil gently and gave the tree its first bath.

I have failed at a number of horticultural efforts over the years – the camellia, the dogwood, and multiple hydrangeas – but something about the crepe myrtle made me optimistic.  Despite its scrawny limbs, I got the impression that this one, this Lagerstroemia indica, was scrappy.  And the chances that I would forget to water something that I saw every time I passed the window were pretty low.

The crepe myrtle survived the summer heat and almost total neglect as I directed all my attention to the sudden illness that would take my father 37 days after diagnosis.  Withstanding a near-drowning from Tropical Storm Debbie and Hurricane Helene, it limped its way into fall, dropping with a languid sigh the one leaf it had managed to produce.  It trembled in the cold stiff winds of winter and bore up under four inches of unexpected snow.

When green finally begin its creep across the landscape, I kept waiting for the little crepe myrtle to, if not burst into bud, at least gasp its way into producing some evidence of life.  Day after day I stared through the window at a bare tree.  I was disappointed, but not surprised.   Had I really expected this latest attempt at gardening to result in spectacular success?  I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath something about wasted money and “never again” and I let it go. 

Then just before Easter, I noticed the way the late afternoon light was falling in soft puddles on the wood floor and stopped to watch it shimmer like the surface of a pond beneath a gentle wind.  I took a deep breath and turned to look at what I knew would be a subtle, but still stunning sunset.  And that is when I saw it – the crepe myrtle covered in fat buds and bright green leaves bouncing in the breeze. The tree I had left for dead, the tree I had forsaken was alive.

I stood there with my hands on my hips frustrated with, aggravated at, and provoked with my own self.  This was not the first time I had, in an effort to avoid disappointment, given up on something beautiful.  Not the first time I had feigned disinterest or claimed detachment when I stood on the edge of letdown.  

In fact, I had lived enough moments just like that one to know that if I chose to stand there long enough, take another couple of deep breaths, stare into shimmering light at the horizon for a few more seconds, I would experience the magic that is believing, that is hope, that is resurrection.

And I did.  Thus, is the power of spring.