From a Mother to a Son

The blossoms made a crisp snapping sound, followed by a soft thud, as my mother removed them from the plant with her thumb, and let them fall into the brown plastic bucket. The pungent odor of their fresh blood tickled my nose as I leaned over the bucket.

The blossoms still looked perfectly bright, cheerful, and beautiful to me. I was sad to see them removed and discarded so violently, so casually, and so soon. Too soon.

I retrieved a few of the marigold blossoms from the bucket and held them in my small hand for a moment, childishly thinking that we might be able to put them back on the plant.

"What's wrong with this one?" I asked. My mother assured me that the blossom was past its prime as she brushed against my hand with her own, causing me to drop the blossoms back in the bucket. "We need to make room so that new, prettier blossoms can bloom." I had my doubts as I shrugged my shoulders and sniffed my palm. The scent of their blood was on my hands now too.

She was partly right. More blossoms did arrive. But, they were never prettier than their predecessors. And, they too were snapped from the plant just as they were about to reach their brightest moment. Too soon.

Our mother meant well. She was always rushing to get to the next, bigger, brighter, or better thing for her and her children. But, it seems that we rushed right through our summers, through childhood, and through four and a half decades together. All too soon. Then, much too soon, my mom rushed on to the next, hopefully brighter thing, as she rushed right out of our lives.

I wish that just once I'd said, "What's the rush mom? What's the rush?". I wish that we had sat in those chairs on the front porch that no one ever sat in. I wish that just once we'd sat for a while to admire the flowers that she had worked so hard to cultivate.

For me, marigolds are like the mascot of summer. I always plant a few in the garden each year, in memory of my mother and summers past, and in celebration of the summer currently at hand. But, I never remove the blossoms from my marigolds until they are fully wilted and spent. This is not an act of defiance. It is an act of love. "See. There's no rush mom. No rush."

Now, I like the scent of the marigold sap on my hands. It's the aroma of long summer days, warm nights, and laughter. As I slow down and enjoy summers with my own children, I realize that maybe, sometimes in my youth, I was rushing just as fast as my mother. Or, maybe I was rushing faster.

This year, thanks to global warming, we had an especially long summer. As I walked my dog each day I admired a huge marigold plant that was not only surviving; it was thriving, in mid-November!

One day I saw a mother and her young son relaxing in the sunny yard, each enjoying a cup of yogurt. It occurred to me that the boy was about the same age as I was at the time of the "deadheading" incident. I stopped and, feeling a little uneasy, I told them how much I liked their marigold plant. "I always smile when I see it. It reminds me of summer.", I said.

The woman's face broke into a wide smile. Clearly, the marigold was a source of joy for her family too. "Thank you!", she said. "We'll keep it going as long as we can!".

Later, I was surprised to find the mother and son waiting for us at the chain link fence bordering their yard as we completed our 20 minute loop around the neighborhood.

"Would you like some blossoms to take home?", she offered.

"Sure!" I said as a lump grew steadily larger in my throat. It was such an incredibly kind gesture.

Unfortunately, she had no scissors, and marigolds are damn tough plants. After attempting to gently snap off two small branches, the mom twisted, tugged, and finally yanked on the branches. Back at the fence, I winced in fear that the entire plant would be torn from the ground. It was a simultaneously heart-warming, melancholy, violent, and comical moment. Finally, the branches broke free. As the mom turned and handed the precious blossoms with their jagged and oozing severed stems to me over the fence I saw my own mother's determination and kindness in her eyes. She knew how much the gift meant to me.

The warm November days continued, and the marigold continued to blossom. Then, one cold, grey morning it was gone. As I approached, I could see the hole in the earth where the roots had been. It wasn't until I reached the chain link fence at the edge of the yard that I saw them. Eight slightly wilted blossoms, carefully cut and gently woven into the fabric of the chain link fence glowed orange against the gloom of the day.

Tears flowed down my cheeks as I removed the blossoms from the fence. I knew they were for me. As I gently removed each imperfect blossom from the fence I heard my own mother's voice say approvingly, "There's nothing wrong with these dear. Nothing wrong at all."

"There's no rush," she said to herself and to me reassuringly. "Take your time," she said.

So, we did.