One forsythia lived and one forsythia did not.
My dad planted them a couple of springs ago. He thought one would have a nice shape. He thought the other would eventually loom over the driveway and bother the cars. The loomer is the one that lived. And it does loom, though it has nowhere near the height necessary to frighten my big, tough minivan. I should prune it, but I’ve never been a disciplined pruner. It’s a good thing that kind of nurturing behavior is frowned upon when it comes to kids, because I never would have been able to choose one or two to trim from the flock.
I like forsythia because for 11 months they’re the ugliest thing out there, and then for one month, or maybe three weeks, they’re really pretty great. A yellow kind of great. And they’re great when everything else isn’t quite up to snuff – the trees still look blanched, the mud has dried into a coat of dust over last fall’s leaves, road grit has yet to be raked from the not-yet-sprung-up grass. At least in my yard. But there goes the forsythia, gleaming yellow, stretching like a cat in the sunlight.
I should do something about the dead one. Can I call it a symbol of the fleetness of life? A reminder to kiss your loved ones as they drive off to work and school? No. It’s just dead. It probably got mauled by a hockey stick. Sorry, forsythia. And you were such a nice shape.