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Flowers. That’s what I always gave my mother on Mother’s Day. We had no money for anything else, and I’d pick a bouquet of wildflowers from alongside our country road. My mother gave her mother, my grandma, flowers too. We’d pick out something pretty at the nursery, a new rose bush, Dutch bulbs, or a new strain of African violet for her wall of violets on glass shelves along her east window. Yesterday’s Mother’s Day amidst the pandemic was no different. I don’t have to think any more about what to get for my mother or grandmother, but I do remember them on this day. Now I am the mother and the grandmother. My son, who lives far away, sent me lilies ordered by internet, and delivered by mail. I like the nursery flowers because they come with a powder, to add to the water, that helps them last for weeks. Every day a new lily has opened, pink, orange, red-orange, a beautiful array. And yesterday we spent the afternoon on the lawn of my daughter’s family, appropriately distanced. My granddaughter had picked a colorful bouquet from their garden to adorn the table, and it was sent home with me as well. The wildflowers were the same as the ones I picked for Mom, iris, bluebells, false Solomon seal, tall dandelion-looking golden flowers. She made me a card with a picture of the ugly virus that separated us, and a Super Virus Dude to wipe it out. She had also picked fresh strawberries for me from their yard garden, remainders of the strawberry plants from my mother’s Minnesota garden. They were small and uncultivated, exactly like the ones I had picked on our back acres. Their flavor exploded in my mouth. Who knew that Mother’s Day in the time of pandemic would take me home to my own mother, my own grandmother, to the flowers and the berries of my youth? --Cynthia
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January 2022
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