petunias

in celebration of my mother's 76th birthday

The year my mother turned 60 she threw a party at the farm where she lived with my stepfather. Pasta salad, marinated vegetables, homemade buns. A true prairie celebration. It rained outside keeping us sheltered in the garage. My grandmother stole the show by presenting the diaper pail she soaked the cloth nappies that wrapped my mother’s behind as an infant.

My mother was full of laughter; joyful for her friends and family gathered at her home.

The next morning we experienced a power outage that lasted long into the evening. My stepdad plugged in a generator to keep the two chest freezers humming, abundant as they were with meat from his brother’s beef operation and produce from the garden. Mom and I spent the day planting petunias into her flower beds scattered throughout the yard.

For many years I’ve lived without my mom. Without her garden, her canned tomatoes and peaches. Without cleaning her fridge of expired salad dressings that were likely replaced with more expired bottles from the cold room.

When I found myself at home one spring with no shows to spirit me away for the seasons to come, I bought planters for my balcony, soil to fill them and petunias. Trays and trays of red wave petunias. I went to work the day after her birthday and that summer there was a bloom for every phone call. Every kiss on the crown of my head. Every birthday card, I love you and reassuring smile. Every time I asked her for advice and she told me, “You have to do whatever is right for you.”

Often when I would stand on the balcony tending the flowers with her wind chimes singing overhead people walking below would call up,

“I love your flowers. I look up to see them every morning and smile.”