Spring, Memory, and the Things that Stay

This article was first published in the April 2026 edition of The Madison Press, the monthly newsletter of the Madison County, Ohio, Board of Developmental Disabilities.

Every year about this time, I get a little restless—in the best kind of way. I feel this pull to get my hands in the dirt. I start thinking about seeds and sketching out plans for what I hope will be an abundant garden (though, if I’m being honest, that’s not always how it turns out ).

I look forward to the trees leafing out and the first time we mow the grass again. I count down the days to weekends—and sometimes whole weeks—at Indian Lake. I can’t wait to hang flowers on the deck and hear birds settling into their nests in the trees around our house.

Spring has a way of waking something up in me.

But it also brings back memories.

I often think about the summer before my mom died when she was living with us. One day she asked if I’d pick up some potting soil and flowers so she could sit out on the deck and dig her hands in the dirt.

That simple request turned into one of those days you don’t realize is special until later. The sun was warm, and we were all out there together—Mom, me, Evan, and Evan’s nurse, Shana. We laughed, talked, and just soaked in the sounds of spring. Evan would giggle every time the neighbor boy zoomed past on his dirt bike.

It was nothing extraordinary. And yet, it was everything.

I recently wrote about “saying good-bye,” and it brought back memories from Evan’s last few weeks—memories I don’t always want to revisit. But it also reminded me of something deeper: how much I love him. Present tense.

Just because I don’t see him every day doesn’t mean he isn’t still part of my life.

The same is true for my mom. I think of her every time I look at the houseplants she left behind—the ones I’ve somehow managed to keep alive for six years now. And every time I hear a dirt bike in the distance, I’m taken right back to that sunny afternoon on the deck, our hands in the dirt, surrounded by laughter.

Maybe that’s what I’m starting to understand about this season.

We often think of spring as a time of renewal—and it is. But it’s also a time of reflection. A time when memories seem to rise up alongside everything else that’s growing.

So I find myself asking:

• What are the small signs of life in our own stories?

• What moments from springs past still make you smile?

• What memories, even the tender ones, still carry a bit of warmth and joy?

Maybe healing doesn’t always come in big, dramatic changes.

Maybe it looks more like this—small, quiet reminders that love is still present, still growing, still rooted deep within us.

And maybe, as the days get longer and the air gets warmer, we can gently allow ourselves to look forward again.

To the feeling of dirt in our hands.

To the simple hope of planting something new.

To watching, in our own time, as something begins to grow.