Upon rising this morning I went out to the garden to look for a white flower. This is the first time I’ve searched for a white flower rather than a brightly coloured tulip or daffodil. This old custom was something my mom and I did every Mother’s Day. Sometimes the apple or cherry blossoms would serve the purpose but this year our wet and cool spring has delayed their flowering. We would pin them on our spring outfits and troop off the church. I recall the fragrance of the flowers close to my face and usually they were rather limp or shredded by the time we arrived home again.
Last year I carried a small bouquet of tulips and daffodils, brightly coloured to church. I didn’t have the heart to wear them as my mother’s health was in rapid decline but I did carry them. To my knowledge no one else in the church were wearing or carrying flowers as the old custom was perhaps forgotten by most. However, I knew the tug of this tradition and dutifully carried it on. However, today as the memory of my amazing mom is what I have this Mother’s Day, white flowers were gathered early this morning. It felt like the right thing to do.
An Embarrassment of Freedom 