My mother has always had a green thumb. When I was a kid, I loved being in the yard with her at the first sign of spring planting buds in her flower bed. For the petite woman she was, my mother had no problem pulling up weeds and hedging the bushes on any given Saturday afternoon. You would think I would’ve inherited this crafty skill, but not so. While I enjoyed spending time with my mom running through the sprinklers after she mowed the lawn, putting in the work was never my strong suit.
As I got older, it seems as though my mother was subconsciously trying to pass this trait on to me. Last year for Mother’s day, she got me yet another potted plant, as if I didn’t still have the empty ceramic dish from the last one she bought me that I fatally neglected. “It’s a hosta fragrant, DeJ,” she insisted, “Those are hard to kill.”
In the “white room” of her home, it’s practically a nursery. She has greenery for days. Vines and blooms like you’ve never seen before. Aside from the empty vase that once contained flowers I got for Valentine’s day, my home is also aligned with beautiful flowers, albeit they’re all artificial. And I prefer it that way. I barely have time to nurture things I do care about in life, let alone some…potted plant that’s bound to die, anyway.
“Kaye got a new bloom, I noticed,” she called me one day to declare of the plant she so lovingly named after herself. “It’s like whenever I’m coming out of my struggle, DeJ, she gives me a sign that something new is in bloom,” she continued. My mother has always been one for symbolism, so perhaps, this is where I get it from.
Gardening tips aside, I love the symbolism that springtime brings, too. Especially lately since I’ve been in somewhat of a slump. This week, I decided to do some spring cleaning. I’ve always felt like decluttering my home helped declutter my thoughts. After tackling my 2 biggest obstacles, my kitchen & my closet, I decided to give my fireplace one last cleaning of the season. As I gathered up the firewood to take to my outside storage, I stumbled upon the hosta plant that my mother gave to me last year. “Since I’m going outside anyway, I may as well put it out too,” I declared of the plant.
The next day, I made somewhat of a comeback to social media after a bit of a hiatus to clear my head. I explained how I’d hit a roadblock & needed time to reset. Before getting in bed that night, I closed the blinds to my patio doors & noticed a small shadow on the porch. When I went to investigate it further, I noticed it was leaf that had sprouted overnight. It reminded me of something my mother said, “Those are hard to kill.” And it gave me hope.
Don’t be jealous of the rose. You’re a hosta fragrant bouquet who, despite being deprived of sunlight & water, refused to die but instead decided to bloom. And after all, roses come by the dozen.
-TheRealBlackCarrieBradshaw
