I have been thinking about getting a new tattoo.
It might be the word perennial. I have been thinking a lot about noun perennial: tulip, daffodil, tomato, strawberry, potato, spearmint. Adjective: lasting or existing for a long or apparently infinite time; enduring or continually reoccurring.
Maybe it will be on the inside of my wrist in cursive flair. Maybe it will be bold italic. Maybe it will be a botanical engraving of an onion. Whatever it is, it will remind me that every year something that disappeared will return. It will show up uninvited and be just fine making an appearance. Just when you think something is over, like the door is shut for good over, a Siberian iris pops up out of the earth and says, "hey!"
When it is summer and the city feels like wading through a giant pool of hot green pea soup and the garbage is dripping out of black bags onto the sidewalk causing streams of gunk to tiptoe over, again, I know it is reliably summer in the city. Perennial.
When I walk around the reservoir and the tiger lilies are bending in the wildflower gardens punching their way onto the path and then suddenly it is the first snowstorm of the season and I have to get a look when there is absolutely no visibility, I think: hmmm, perennial.
When the sun sets with solstice precision between the two towers of the Eldorado and a pink cloud blocks the light at just the moment I've been waiting for, I think: yup, perennial.
When my child grows and changes and I think her hair is the color of peony: I pray for perennial.
Maybe I will glance at my wrist and it will seem like a silly idea in a few years. I can dream that I can be part of something that will last forever or unobtrusively come back for more: with fir trees and thyme.
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