The flower “buckets†stood empty, and I was amazed. I had never gone into a Trader Joe’s grocery store without seeing a dazzling display of bouquets, orchids, and blooms. At first I thought something must have happened—like a freak freeze—but then it slowly dawned on me why there were no flowers. Mother’s Day happened.
Even now as I think about it, I saw oodles of people carrying flowers about on that day. Some looked harried, as though Mother’s Day had snuck up on them once again, some looked pleased, and some looked thoughtful.
My husband and I bought a bouquet of mixed flowers and took them to the mausoleum where his mother’s ashes rest. I stood quietly as he placed his hand upon the cold marble and had a private moment with the woman who shaped him into the fine gentleman he is. Later, as we wandered about the building, I noted a vase of carnations with a hand-scribbled note:
Dear Mom,
As a mother you were the greatest dad.
I miss you.
Love, Tony
 I smiled at the story that must exist behind those words. We love our mothers in endless ways, struggle against their bonds at times, and find their words seeping out of us as we in turn become mothers. My mom used to say, “Don’t bring me flowers when I’m dead, bring them while I can enjoy them.† But, oddly, she was never a flower-loving woman. I’d bring them anyway. Moms and flowers, the best part of my day.
My grandmother and I had a wonderful bond. She lived 1/4 of a mile from us and I got to see her every day. Like most grandparents, she found me much more interesting than my parents and I adored her. I used to bring her flowers when I was in college and working and she loved them. She always said, “Please don’t bring flowers to my funeral. I love them NOW. Don’t come to my funeral. I won’t be there” Our son, Tyler, born by c-section, was 5 weeks old when we got in the car to show him to my grandma, now 94 years old. On the trip to see her, she died. I didn’t go to her funeral and I didn’t send flowers. She and I knew what our relationship was and I didn’t need to go to a ceremony to prove it. I think of her in every bunch of flowers, and I smile because of her gifts to me. Flowers matter when I am alive . . . . .
Simply, as always, a beautiful comment. Thank you Claudia.
🙂 Gail