Forsythia are beautiful. Their yellow blooms are the brightest and boldest heralds of early spring. My love of forsythia traces back to early childhood. Our yard showcased a semi-tamed towering patch, and when they bloomed, they dazzled me.
Last week, my first glimpse of brilliant gold delivered a smile that flooded my soul: spring is here!
Riding on joy’s coattails, however, was the ever opportunistic sadness: Tyler is gone.
Since Tyler’s death thirteen springs ago, there is an unmistakable link between forsythia and the loss of my son.
On the one hand, forsythia shrubs transform winter’s barrenness and dull hues with their cheerful display of color.
On the other hand, their vibrancy ushers in the March 29th anniversary of Tyler’s death.
No other flowering flora serves as a grief trigger for me. Only forsythia. Because Tyler loved forsythia, too.
The moment I discovered this is a special memory of mine. The spring Tyler was 3, his little voice piped up from the back seat of our car, “Aren’t the forsythia beautiful?”
His dad and I were a bit astonished by his perfect articulation of a difficult word. A word we hadn’t even known was in his vocabulary.
For me, that moment went beyond pride in his precociousness. My boy thought forsythia were beautiful, too. Yet another attribute my son and I shared. Just everything about him warmed my heart.
Each spring after that, Tyler and I expressed our mutual delight when the forsythia bloomed. One of our countless special bonds, on repeat.
The spring Tyler was 15, bold yellow blossoms again proclaimed winter’s end. But neither he nor I noticed. My precious son was in a coma, facing death. And I was too besieged to take in my surroundings.
This year when the forsythia bloomed, I wasn’t ready for their impact. I think that’s a testament to where my grief is these thirteen years later.
Grief is no longer so raw that it engulfs me. The loss is ever part of who I am, but no longer defines me. My sadness is no longer the constant companion it once was.
Even the approach of March 29th has been different this year. The dread has been relegated to isolated moments of despondency rather than sustained sorrow.
I’ve been reflecting on my reaction to this year’s brilliant blooms. I’ve decided their effect stood out more starkly for me because, with the passage of time, I am plagued less by strong grief responses.
I know the association between forsythia and Tyler will always be there. But I can rework it.
How much more fitting that the bright and beautiful flowers highlight not what I’ve lost, but rather the brightness and the beauty of my son’s life.
Next March, it would go something like this…
My first glimpse of brilliant gold will deliver a smile that floods my soul: spring is here!
And riding on joy’s coattails… is more joy… as I remember the beauty that Tyler left behind.
And the special bond we shared.