The lilies

Soon enough, they will fill the roadsides.
For, already the sweet and succulent apple-green leaves are dense and hurriedly growing, ready to cover anything unable to outrun it--the fast feet of Daylilies.
Not that I don’t love them,
wait for them,
stand and stare at their velvety orangeness--
miss them when their day of beauty has passed.
But, bright and bold as they are, they’ve moved in and made themselves at home in a place not their own.

Yellow Trout-lily, Erythronium americanum

The waking woods are home to those more quiet.
Where, seeking the filtered light reaching the forest floor, the tiniest of lilies peeks from beneath the dried leaves of winter with nodding head, on delicate stem barely ankle high.

Trout-lily leaves

Trout-lilies, so named for their spotted leaves resembling the markings on trout, cover the hillsides here, sometimes in large colonies of one hundred plants or more.
And share a time with the great trees they stand beneath.
Hundreds of years, together.

Colony of White Trout-lily, Erythronium albidum

Bright white or yellow,
catching rays of this first spring light.
Theirs is a rich joy.
Old money.

Our Lily, Felis catus

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Cat-astrophe

Anyone who has had children or pets knows that the simple truth of travel, “If some illness will come upon you, you will be miles from your family doctor,” also may be expressed in its holiday form. After all, what completes a long-awaited celebration and houseful of breakfast guests more perfectly than a series of frantic phone calls to an emergency service and a visit to a 24-hour pharmacy?

I had stumbled downstairs in the darkness of an early winter morning, briefly stopping to lay out food for the cats, upstairs, before quietly emerging to start the holiday breakfast. The five furry bodies in our bedroom, nothing more than five dark blotches against a light rug, swarming around their kibble in the pre-dawn light.
I had touched each for a moment, tousled their hair, and left.

Only after breakfast, and in daylight, did I return to check them more properly before beginning the rest of my day. And found Lily, apart from the others, her face tilted down, and away.
As she tentatively turned to look up at me, I saw only one eye, golden and round, as it should be--the other, barely there, peeking from deep within its socket, while plump folds of pink filled most of the rounded space. She fussed and fussed at it with one paw, rubbing the soft pink, unable to see beyond the puffiness--
and hissed
and yowled.

“How quickly can you get her here,” came the welcome response from my third attempt to connect with something other than a recorded holiday message. And, minutes later, cat box in tow, we arrived on the doorstep of an animal hospital, the vet inside just finishing rounds before closing early for the afternoon.

She flushed it and peeked into the pink—to discover what appeared to be an uninjured eyeball, hiding behind an allergic response of Lily’s third eyelid, the angry membrane badly swollen from her repeated rubbing and fussing.
With orders for steroids and instructions for several days’ eyedrops, we headed home.

On this balmy December day, Lily sits in her favorite spot on the front porch, eyes already much brighter.
Focused on the world below.
She glances sideways at me as I sit watching her heal, two round golden eyes very thankful—
of the miracles of modern medicine
and those who practice it with passion.

Lily on front porch, looking down

Lily

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