I have always been stingy with love. The word, not the emotion. I was afraid to give it away randomly. In contrast to current usage where one might express love for a pair of stylish strappy sandals with the same feeling they use for a person.

So I liked things, even admired or adored or envied or revered some things, but I always held back on the L word. That was for people, and I used it sparingly so as not to diminish its importance. I could love my mother, but not the beautiful flowering crêpe myrtle tree, my view from the window of the little attic studio that was the bedroom of my teenage years.

I loved that tree, with its bright pink blossoms that hung toward the house, bowing in reverence. It knew all my dreams and secrets including every boy I ever had a crush on. Every boy who didn’t return my feelings and one or two who maybe did. At least for a while. Usually a very short while. I loved the tree longer and more deeply than any of the boys. I loved it in my heart, never out loud.

It was at this point in my musings this morning that I re-established myself, and my cup of precisely five-minute brewed English breakfast tea, to the front porch swing next to the crepe myrtle tree. It was time for a long overdue conversation. The tree leaned into me with its now-bare branches, gracefully blossom-less.

“Look, “I said. “I love you. You bring me joy. I loved your relatives that lined the street where I lived in Virginia. While they hold the dreams and secrets of my youth, the secrets and sorrows of my later years belong to you. “

I no longer need to be stingy with my love. There’s plenty for everyone and everything that moves me to that emotion.

“What about us?” came a chorus of lavender from the window boxes behind the swing. “Where are we in your hierarchy of love? “

I no longer need to be stingy with my love. There’s plenty for everyone and everything that moves me to that emotion.

“What about us?” came a chorus of lavender inpatients from the window boxes behind the swing. “Where are we in your hierarchy of love? We’re not people or trees. Can you love us anyway? “Done,” I replied.

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The boxes were a gift to myself on my 50th birthday, the fulfillment of a childhood fantasy that a happy home had to have window boxes. I have loved all the flowers that have resided in these redwood triangular homes affixed to my window sills.

But this morning, after years of silence on the subject, I can tell them I love them. And it doesn’t diminish the love I felt for my late husband or my daughter or the grandchildren or my family or friends. I love that, even now, there’s so much left to learn about love.

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