photo by Paul Mayer
BY KIMBERLY MAYER
It was my mother who prompted me to bring home the poinsettia plant this week. We will be going away for the holidays, but she was with me at the market and couldn’t resist the display.
Mom’s with me all the time now.
“O.K., O.K.” I said, “but we’re going to do it a little differently this year.” I sound like the mother now.
Typically I go for the creamy white, and she, the fire engine red. Together we took home the faded pink and we’re loving it. It lifts color from the rug and puts a blush on the complexion of everyone in the room.
Not too long ago I had to haggle with time zones, flight schedules, and getting to and from airports. Now she’s here, as I said. A companion for me in my rather reclusive life as a writer on a sparsely populated island, especially in winter.
Without her I’d be lonely.
Mom doesn’t fall ill anymore, she’s simply well. We figure out what to wear, share books, plan menus, and set spectacular tables. She’s tickled to find her silver here and thrilled when we use it. No matter how many guests, there is always room for Mom at the table.
She’s a part of me now, particularly outdoors. I always knew Mom would love this place. Yesterday we took it upon ourselves to plant the narcissi. That enormous bag of bulbs had been sitting on the floor of the mud room for two months. I had almost forgotten about it, but she remembered. We took an eyesore, a barren bank on the side of the drive, and popped into the ground 30 trumpet daffodil to bloom in early spring, 30 in mid spring, and 30 in late spring. Mom was almost giddy. The weather was raw and I was just happy to see she wasn’t cold, and her back didn’t ache in the digging.
It’s mine now that’s going.
I know of nothing like bulbs for staying forward looking in life. Growing amaryllis bulbs indoors in the Christmas season is a tradition mom instilled in us years ago. There are times when I would gladly forego everything about the holiday but that. I measure my days by its stalks.
Likewise that dirt bank in the drive is going to pull us through the winter months, I just know it. There the bulbs will rise like a standing ovation, proclaiming there will always be another spring.
One way or another.