For nearly 12 seasons, I watched the top branches of the tree bloom and die and become reborn again.
From the window of the loft, it was the only visible sign of life outside, peeking carefully over the rooftops—the brick walls of our neighbour's house obstructed everything else from view. For three years, that tree was my only cue.
Dropping Brock off today, after our sanctioned time together was up, I paused for a moment in the doorway and looked out the window. Three seasons have passed since I last watched buds form on the branches of that tree.
It doesn't seem so long ago.
Against my better judgement, I'm starting to believe again. I'm starting to believe that yes, not only am I deserving of love, but I may just be capable of loving, too. I'm starting to place faith in impracticalities and impossibilities. I'm starting to remember that despite my pragmatic nature, it's the impulsive gut decisions that have always brought me the most happiness.
And above all, I have reason to believe that there's nothing that the perfect yellow vintage dress cannot solve. This, if nothing else, is something of love.