A day with Mom and Dad

            All this unaccustomed gardening time summons thoughts of my mother. I channel Mom as I plant red geraniums in big pots. I think of her while I browse Sprague’s nursery and bring home a rhododendron. My childhood home abounded in rhododendrons. Mom taught me to snap off the gone-by blooms. When I picture Mom in summer, she is tending roses, weeding, edging, digging, planting, or snipping blooms to arrange in vases around the house. Is this new affinity for gardening a sign of age or wistfulness?
            Jonathan says I also remind him of my dad, because my face gets so bright red and sweaty. Sometimes I wonder if that’s rain on my neck, but no, just me.
            There they both are – in me, with me, around me. It was a good Memorial Day.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 272: 133 words, TOTAL = 45,935; 14,065 remaining