My family passes down irises from generation to generation. I remember — deep purple with a whisper of violet and a golden backbone. We can trace their genealogy to my great-grandmother’s garden, I think. More than 100 years of soil and rain feed each flower. For more than 100 winters, they have slept in silence. For more than 100 springs, they survive the frost. Their faces always point to the sun. They kiss bees and flirt with ladybugs. Their regal petals wave in the breeze as if to greet the Queen of England. They are bursting through the snow without apology, hesitation, or fear. Every inch a lady.

What stories could they tell? Could they tell the story of my grandparent’s first date in a small boat during the Great 1937 Flood? Of my grandfathers’ return from The War? Of my brother Brian’s death? Of Derby morning in 1972 when my great-grandfather died? Of hasenpfeffer and visits to Algonquin Park? Of playing princess in the picture window? Of learning German prayers? Of moving from home, to home, to home, finding life in new soil at each turn. Watching all of us grow up along the way.

Do they relish the slumber of winter? Do they get lonely each spring when the faces they have known do not reappear? Do they get jealous at the grandeur of the fellow traveler peony whose fragrance wafts in the breeze like delicate perfume in summer? Do they get weary of carrying the weight of family secrets through the fall? These are the questions I hold as I remember bulbs and blooms and picture windows.

I was thinking about the irises today. I am unsure if the irises still in my family are the same ones that once lived in my great-grandmother’s yard. I like to think they are. I like to think they are parts of her, parts of us, parts of me that survive seasons. I want to believe her story — our story — is kept alive through them. I celebrate their strength and beauty. I celebrate their color and detail. I celebrate their timeliness and discretion. I celebrate their humor and billowy beards. I celebrate their dependability and surprise. I celebrate their wisdom and grace.