The formal peony beds at Suzie’s childhood home – a stately Victorian in black and white perched upon Locust Avenue – were usually my first brush with summer as we celebrated her birthday in early June every year. While the other party attendees focused on the games and silliness that kids are wont to love, I wandered off by myself to see the peonies, in full, resplendent bloom in the gardens away from the crowd.
They towered up to my height, their heads heavy with petals and peony perfume yet still somehow standing, and their effect was magical. It was a brush with the sublime, one that I’ve held onto through these middle-age years, and one that has kept me company on the cold nights and desolate mornings of winter. They embodied beauty and hope and happiness, bursting with their brilliance and refusing to bow down to subtlety or other expected decorum. Part of me wanted to be just like them, and part of me cowered at their power. In their buds they held all the promise of something spectacular, something moving, something that would change my life.
