Wildflowers and the Meaning of Existence
Every time I write at my desk and look out at the mountains, I am surrounded with bits of Mom's legacy: the shamrock plant she and I revived by transplanting it; the huge geranium that Mom rooted from a broken stem, something I would never have realized could be done had Mom not suggested it; one of Mom's handmade baskets that now holds my outgoing mail; a couple of her watercolors; her wooden angel that Juan hung on the wall above where she died; her ashes in one of Grandpa’s pots; a few photos of Mom, my favorite the one in which she is bent down gathering something from the forest floor, her butt way up in the air, which is the position I most remember Mom being in. She was always gathering something. |