Not my Hydrangeas

In front of my small suburban home is a row of hydrangeas. We purchased the home in March, when they were still twigs poking up in front of the porch. As the leaves flushed out, I began anticipating the blooms. Blue? Purple? Pink? It all depended upon the soil.

As I started yardwork, and the buds began forming on the tips of the branches, passers-by started saying hello. A neighbor leaned over the fence and remarked, "Those are the most beautiful hydrangeas in all of Hanover." I started at them a moment, smiling, nodding, and remarking, "Thanks."

But for what? I had not planted them here, and though I have a front lawn, I park in the back, use the backdoor, and only occasionally sit on my front porch.

Two days later, a Mennonite lady walked by while I was ripping out rampant spring onion and remarked, "Every year, I take a picture of my grand daughter in front of those hydrangeas."

What was I supposed to say? I had yet to see the plants bloom, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to invite some random woman to take pictures in front of the house that I'd bought and paid for.

With slight hesitation, I responded, "Well, you're welcome to keep doing that once they start blooming." And she responded as if relieved with gratitude and thanks.

I pushed my bandana back, tightening the my ponytail with a tug, and continued weeding.

When they bloomed a week later, my lawn was host to blue fireworks and shades of purple and pink, like cotton candy in petal form. I snagged my own camera, and though I have no grandchildren, I began taking snapshots.

Over the course of the following weeks and months (as hydrangeas' blooms last all summer) I had several neighbors and passersby stop, take pictures, pose in front of these plants.

I wasn't the one that planted them. They're not my hydrangeas. I own the home, the land they grow on, but they are everyone's hydrangeas, and the woman who passed, leaving this home to sold, they are her hydrangeas, and I think she left these hydrangeas to everyone.