It bothers me more than it should that I don’t know the name of this plant. I’m the one who walks through gardens and nurseries with a notepad, reading all the tags and jotting down names. I think my mother would know. As always, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting and thanks to you for reading. Your comments, especially concrit, are appreciated.
The Leavings – 100 Words
She taught by talking. “That fuzz on the oak stem is a wasp gall,” and “Marigolds alongside tomatoes repel cutworms,” and “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”
She taught by doing. Engulfing my unblemished fingers; both of us guiding the iron over Daddy’s snowy handkerchiefs.
She taught by example. Rising early. Working long. Praying, without ceasing.
“Why are raindrops round?” my young one asks, and I know.
“A sphere holds the most volume with the least surface area.”
Her unblemished finger touches my cheek. “Why are teardrops round?”
Mother always hid her tears. Not I. “They hold the most memories.”