MOTHERS AND MEMORIES
Although it’s been three years since my Mother died, I miss and think of her every day. I remember her perfume, the way she threw her head back and clapped her hands when she laughed, her iced coffee on hot summer afternoons and the love she had for her garden and the flowers that graced her house in Colorado.
Most of all, I remember the windowsill in her kitchen. It was here that she kept her prized tiny, potted African Violets – nine or ten of them at a time – sitting in a row just above the sink where the late afternoon sun hit those purple petals perfectly to create crystal-quality rainbows in the overhead windowpane.
Two weeks after my Mother’s death, I returned home to California where a dear family member came to visit. Tacha had been the housekeeper for my husband’s family for decades. She had never been to Colorado, but had met my Mother on several occasions when my Mother came to visit us in California. And, over the years – Tacha and my Mother — came to know and adore each other.
So, on this particularly beautiful California Sunday Tacha appeared – sad and solemn – to pay her respects to her friend, my Mother. She brought one of her fabulously spicy Mexican chicken chilis still hot from the oven. And, she told me she had something else for me as well.
She began to apologize, explaining that as she was leaving the grocery store that day, she passed through the florist section. She said she saw this one tiny little plant sitting alone, all by itself on the shelf. She said she didn’t know what it was and she had never seen one before. She said it really wasn’t very pretty and she didn’t know if I would like it or not, but for some reason she felt compelled to buy it and bring it to me.
She then reached into her bag and brought out the little potted plant – an African Violet with two tiny flowers in bloom.
I literally was knocked back against the wall and gasping, I began to tell Tacha about the little plant, explaining its importance, what it meant to me, the love my Mother had for them, and how she always kept them on her kitchen windowsill in her house in Colorado.
We two were thunderstruck. My Mother’s presence at that moment was overwhelming, palatable and tangible. It was as if she had never left us. And as Tacha and I hugged each other, laughing through our tears, we knew my Mother was there as well, embracing us both.
That little African Violet still sits on the windowsill in my kitchen today and has bloomed continuously since the day it arrived three years ago. It is a constant reminder to me that my Mother is still looking out for me, watching over me and sending me love.
And I know, with complete confidence, that all our Mothers are doing the same – wherever they may be.
Leave a Comment