I don't remember walking on the edge of the huge planters that held the earth that held the tulips with their dusky green stalks lush and plush focussed toward the sun and flaming bright with flower. I don't remember that my little brother was there too. I don't remember what my mother said about the flowers or how she might have looked as she beheld the glory of those annual delights. What I have is a trigger and a splash of bliss and a thought about mother. Planted long ago and reappearing every year.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
mother's birthday
Today when I see a patch of tulips I am drilled through the skull and into my brain to a place so small I can't read what's written there. The only remnant of this imprint that is available to me is a feeling: my mother's joy. I don't remember the days we went to see the tulips in Michigan. I don't remember the tulips.
I don't remember walking on the edge of the huge planters that held the earth that held the tulips with their dusky green stalks lush and plush focussed toward the sun and flaming bright with flower. I don't remember that my little brother was there too. I don't remember what my mother said about the flowers or how she might have looked as she beheld the glory of those annual delights. What I have is a trigger and a splash of bliss and a thought about mother. Planted long ago and reappearing every year.
I don't remember walking on the edge of the huge planters that held the earth that held the tulips with their dusky green stalks lush and plush focussed toward the sun and flaming bright with flower. I don't remember that my little brother was there too. I don't remember what my mother said about the flowers or how she might have looked as she beheld the glory of those annual delights. What I have is a trigger and a splash of bliss and a thought about mother. Planted long ago and reappearing every year.
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2 comments:
In the days when "Mother" means "what is wrong with me" and so little there is to feel good about past mistakes, there is the tulip memory and the related joy. THE best present ever.
hello anonymous, happy birthday, whenever that is.
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