As I (yes I’ll write I from time to time) was riding home on a crisp but sunny third day of spring, I thought what will our children think of us when we are gone. Which flower or bush will they associate us with when thinking fondly of our behind. When thinking of my aunt I think of the kerria bush because it was her husband’s favorite, an uncle I hardly knew. When thinking of my Grandmother I think of gladiolas, all lined up in a row. I can’t see them in her house, just down near the field. And my Grandfather, asparagus. Not only that we were made to eat it but that it went to seed around the time we were thinking of going swimming.

My Dad just told me recently that he used to grow roses. I never knew. My brother loves African violets, a collection in his window. It is unimaginable for my children to associate a certain flower with me. Just flowers strewn everywhere, vases populating the kitchen counters, a contemplation of what to do and what is done. Still searching for the right one, but they know that.