The Tears of the Hydrangea

hydrangea macrophylia

I watch my sixteen year old yellow lab wobble when she tries to stand.  How long will her life be I wonder?  She is such a loyal companion.  I read about long Covid and worry how my husband is healing in Brazil.  I wish I could give him a kiss.  My sister with lymphoma is possibly in remission.  She calls after a long quiet spell and we laugh when she tells me how easy it is to wash her bald head before bed.  No more worry about shampoo and brushing her long gray hair that's gone into hibernation.  I am awed that my sixty-eighth birthday is so near. I miss having birthday morning breakfast with my granddaughter who shares that birth date and is also in Brazil.  Separated by decades we share a special bond.   "Sixty-eight!" I yell at to my friend.  "I don't feel old, though."  She tells me.  Neither do I.  But the wiry black hairs I pluck out of my chin prove otherwise.  "What the hell is this?"  I didn't laugh when I first realized I was growing a mustache.  Testosterone rules as woman age.  It's all as natural as this blue hydrangea weeping after a rain.  Blue moods come and go.  Denying them is not the right course.  Letting them have their run is the way to be.   I am focusing on how this blossom will once again shimmer and shine in the sun.