Heirloom

Grandma had a pussy willow bush. 

She loved it because it bore one of the first signs of spring every year, 

 catkins as soft as a new kitten's fur.

Branches were cut and brought into the house, almost as a celebration.

But Grandpa hated it because it blocked his view of the barn.

Every now and then he'd cut it way back, so he could see the barn better.

Oh, and you know she hated that!

I got my bush, now more like a tree, from my dear mother-in-law 

—a rooted branch from her own.

Seems like she's always had one here or there on their property. 

And I might remember a few go-arounds about 'over trimming' hers, too.

What's with men and over trimming?

Every year, I watch its branches for a sign of spring, 

searching for those downy buds.

This year, I also spotted this random bonus item: