Gardens & Growth

No one has ever told me I take after my mother. I have my father’s eyes, his family’s Irish skin tone, his height and his mother’s curly hair. My mom is small and dark-haired, with beautiful olive skin that deepens at the thought of sun. She is logic to my creativity, order to my laid-back nature. Practical, where I dream.

When I look at my tomato sprouts, I see her.  As far back as I can remember- as soon as we lived in a climate where a garden could grow, we would buy my mom flats of flowers for Mother’s Day. Piling into the car, we’d make the inevitable trek to the greenhouse and walked in, enveloped in the smell of fertilizer. We’d spend what felt like eternity picking out the flowers in their dark grey, square plastic trays. We’d come home and line up them up in the front yard – little rows of greener than life stems and flowers bursting with color.

In front of me on my desk, a Moses in the Valley shoot stands in a jar of water, waiting to root and be taken to work. I never thought I would have inherited my mother’s green thumb, but in truth, it seems like all “a green thumb” is, is trying.

I walked to the hardware store today to pick up planters. It’s about 20 minutes away, just outside of the central city.  I needed bigger pots for my tomatoes. I don’t know what at all compelled me – all of the sudden, I felt a conviction: this house won’t feel a home until it boasts of flowers. How can I take myself seriously if I’ve never grown anything by hand? I imagine my planters on our balcony, sunlit and bold. I having breakfast on a checkered tablecloth on our little balcony table, surrounded by blossoms. Success in adult life, without a doubt, depends on my seedlings. I suppose there is a bit of my mother in me after all.