Two years ago I planted a clematis off of my back patio. I'd been looking for pretty white one to climb the arbor there, and couldn't resist this beauty with such a handsome name. It had one bloom it's first year; I wasn't even sure it would make it. But last spring it grew vigorously and gave me lots of creamy white blooms.
Henry is in the throes of neutropenia right now. He has a fever constantly. He's coughing and spitting blood. He's crying a lot. And we have a few days to go before his immune system is able to stand up to protect him.
This is what I've been fearing, and waiting for. We hoped he wouldn't be so uncomfortable, but expected it nonetheless. We've gone from "one week at at time" to "one day at a time", now to "one hour at a time". I try not to think past this hour, try just to focus keeping him as comfortable as possible now.
But that handsome bloom is in my thoughts a lot. As I type, I can see it's dormant stems twisting through the arbor. They are brittle, breakable now. One hour at a time.
Soon, it will warm. The sun will shine, it's leaves will bud, and later this spring I will hold that silky bloom between my fingertips. Henry and I will hold it together.