You never had the heart to tell your little boy that the beautiful flower bouquets he proudly presented you with upon bursting through the front door were no more than weeds. Rather, you received each day's gift with a smile and feigned surprise, removing yesterday's withered haul from the makeshift vase to clear the way for the purples and yellows and oranges of the day. The little flower petals looked so misplaced on the dense, malignant stalks. As if these plants had learned through eons of evolutionary persecution to adopt the adornment of a harmless, delicate flower to disguise their true nature. To divert attention from the ground choking tentacles exploding just beneath the earth's surface.
"Don't be alarmed. Just a flower here. No need to pull me!"
Culled from the one remaining vacant lot on the block, my bouquet was superior in every way to my friend, Billy's. I thought so, at least.
Thought so? Heck, I knew so!
Every day after school, before the bus that dropped us at the end of North 80th Place could even pull away from the curb, we sprinted to our lot. While the weekends would find us building non-code forts from scavenged materials and digging tunnels (thwarted from pioneering a direct route to China by only the occasional trespass of a utility line), school days saw us vie for the most beautiful "flowers" to present our mothers. Striking out in opposite directions, we knew that one perfectly unique treasure was hiding just out of sight somewhere. If we saw mostly purples, we looked for blues. If we saw mostly blues, we looked for reds. With an hour to kill before the day's highly anticipated olive war, we took our time to locate the very best specimens. Only when satisfied that we had crafted the finest bouquets ever seen west of the Mississippi would we collect our abandoned backpacks and trudge the rest of the way home. Each smirking privately in victory.
That lot was developed long ago.
Ironically, the German couple that moved in kept the most beautiful garden in the neighborhood for years. You couldn't pass by their house without marveling at the sight. More often than not, one or both of them would be out in the yard on hands and knees, tending it. Pouncing on the interloping weeds that I once cherished so.
If I had my way this Mother's Day, I'd bypass the store bought roses and eschew the Germans' amazing daffodils altogether. I'd roll back the clock and peel away the stucco and mortar to reclaim the patch of dirt that the backhoes and cement mixers took from me some two decades ago.
I'd return that lot to the barren state that was a blight to every set of eyes except ours.
And I'd pick you the prettiest bouquet that you have ever seen ...
... since yesterday.
I love you, Mom.
Happy Mother's Day,
Paul
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Hi Paul, I love the way your mind works, to capture a memory and to instill it better than all the prose already written and published. To take your childhood memory and protect from an adult mind of trespassing on the barren lot and picking the flowers that not only pleased your eye but would probably make your Mom's water. Not from the weeds but from the captured innocent beauty. A wonderful story and an even better tribute to both you and your Mom. Seeing as how the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, she must be so delighted and proud that you are her son.