The first white iris opened in the backyard yesterday.
The former owner, who was the first owner, whose home we bought after she died, planted these irises. We probably haven’t treated them nearly as well as she did–there were signs when we moved in that she was once a serious gardener–but still they bloom faithfully every year, one of our home’s first signs of spring. I sometimes think of them as a gift that she left us, for all that we never knew each other and she likely never thought of it as such.
The other irises are no doubt close behind–they all look near to blooming.