The flower â€œbucketsâ€ stood empty, and I was amazed.Â I had never gone into a Trader Joeâ€™s grocery store without seeing a dazzling display of bouquets, orchids, and blooms.Â At first I thought something must have happenedâ€”like a freak freezeâ€”but then it slowly dawned on me why there were no flowers.Â Motherâ€™s Day happened.
Even now as I think about it, I saw oodles of people carrying flowers about on that day.Â Some looked harried, as though Motherâ€™s Day had snuck up on them once again, some looked pleased, and some looked thoughtful.
My husband and I bought a bouquet of mixed flowers and took them to the mausoleum where his motherâ€™s ashes rest.Â I stood quietly as he placed his hand upon the cold marble and had a private moment with the woman who shaped him into the fine gentleman he is.Â Later, as we wandered about the building, I noted a vase of carnations with a hand-scribbled note:
As a mother you were the greatest dad.
I miss you.
Â I smiled at the story that must exist behind those words.Â We love our mothers in endless ways, struggle against their bonds at times, and find their words seeping out of us as we in turn become mothers. My mom used to say, â€œDonâ€™t bring me flowers when Iâ€™m dead, bring them while I can enjoy them.â€ Â But, oddly, she was never a flower-loving woman.Â Iâ€™d bring them anyway.Â Moms and flowers, the best part of my day.