Whenever we visited Jame’s Gramma Lil (and Papa Joe) in Akron, Ohio, they stood out front, our welcoming party, waiting for us to arrive; and when we departed, they stood sentinel, arm-in-arm waving goodbye, blowing kisses, and wiping their eyes there on the steps of the front porch framed by handsome urns of red geraniums.
Gramma Lil left this planet much too soon. So, we do what we know to do: we buy Red Geraniums on Mother’s Day for our front steps also. I make a quiet ritual of potting the signature flowers in bold splashes of color. Some years the flowers are healthier than others, and I never can remember if I have potting soil in the shed from the year before, so I buy more. I cut open the bag, sniff the pungent soil, scoop out cup fulls. I don’t wear gloves so I can feel it damp in my hands, under my fingernails. I settle the flowers into handsome metal urns adorning the entry of our home. I sit back on my heels. Pause. I remember our story. I listen for Gramma’s voice on the wind. Then I place the watering can just out of the way so Jamé and I too can stand arm-in-arm next to the urn, awaiting our guests.
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Whenever the door opens, petals blow in. At our house on Aster, the petals scattered all over the white tiled foyer and smeared streaks of red when I tried to sweep them up with a broom. Aren’t Geraniums the stinkiest and messiest flowers ever? Constantly needing the old blossoms pruned so new ones can grow into robust blooms, into their own continued bright, messy glory.
Henri J. M. Nouwen, whose words are as timeless as they are loved, wrote:
“It is indeed in the usual, normal and ordinary events that we touch the mystery of human life. When a child is born, a man or woman embrace, or a mother or father dies, the mystery of life reveals itself to us. It is precisely in the moments when we are most human, most in touch with what binds us together, that we discover the hidden depths of life” (Source: In Memoriam).