It’s Mother’s Day, an event that practically demands sappy cliches, but I just cannot go there. Instead our morning: my brother and I and family made brunch for our 85-year-old mother. Yellow tulips on the table in a gray stoneware pitcher purchased fifty years ago when we lived in Scotland. Waffles and eggs and sausage. Strawberries and cream. Mimosas. We sat around the table recounting memories of childhood, the mischief, the mayhem, and the joys. In Scotland, we had a cottage across from the Firth of Clyde. At the end of the long driveway from our house was a row of shops–first a sweetie shop with shelves extending two stories, all with jars full of candies. Next came our landlady’s knitting store. Add a bookshop and it would be rather nirvana at this point. Outside our kitchen door was the landlady’s enormous garden with raspberry canes tempting my mother and other fruit and flowers and a Japanese maple and a palm tree that waved at my little brother, who waved back as he sat in his stroller. We are all grown up and growing old now, but I hope the palm tree is still waving and that it waves at you.
A Peony with background texture by Flypaper Textures