Small Bouquets

I have been debating what to write for this end-of-March posting.  I started several drafts.  But the new spring sunshine pulled me in its own direction.

I filled a rough clay vase with flowers from my city yard.  Tiny daffodils, regular size daffs with peachy-orange corona, and red-violet Lenten rose.

This act made me miss my mother.  Next month will bring the first anniversary of her death.  But my small bouquet did not make me sad; it brought back good memories.

My mom’s world got smaller and smaller, and though she loved the outdoors she rarely got out for many years.  Each week, except for the depths of winter, I would take her a small bouquet.  I would be headed to the car, groceries and whatever diversion I had thought of for her in hand (family photos, a card or letter, a book, or comb, or toothpicks!)  Oh!  I would stop, head back in for my plastic soda bottle, top cut off, that fit into my car cup holder, and my scissors. I would walk around my unkempt yard and find a blooming bulb here, a flower on a branch there, a bit of greenery.  Maybe some invasive mint, to add a scent. At her room , assembled in her small vase, it always looked abundant.

She would exclaim over the flowers I was growing.  She imagined I had banks and beds in full bloom!  When in fact, I just learned to scour the whole place and pluck a few things to assemble together.

I am going to bring this back to our writing this month of March.  How many times did you feel that you had nothing to write, nothing to offer?  But you needed something, so you trained your mind to look around and find a “hidden gem.” You plucked something out of the confusing day.  You built a little composition out of a small moment.  And it was an abundance- always enough.

P.S. I enjoyed Elizabeth Ellington’s post today and – in response to her request for more cats- I bring you the rogue, Otto, invading my flower picture.