Mom’s birthday present? That was always easy to figure. Like me, she shared a love of flowers. Every year I sent her a bouquet. Not that she needed more. She had a bed of irises that blossomed in the backyard of her small, Indiana farm. They were as elegant as they were plentiful, a royal purple set against green fields. “Take some,” she said. “Dig some up and plant them on the side of your own house.”
But in my yard they languished. A year passed, then two, and not one bloom appeared. I cut back all their spiky, green leaves. I was tired of seeing them so bare and lonely looking. Eventually, I dug up the bulbs and threw them away.
About that time Mom died unexpectedly. My three siblings and I sold the farm. I never went back to gaze at the irises. I just couldn’t bear the thought of seeing another family living in our home – Mom’s home.
Fall came, then winter. The following spring, as Mom’s birthday approached, I struggled with the question of how to honor her. I stared out the window at my side yard and saw a few stubborn iris stalks, tall, thin and flowerless, sprouting. I guess I must have missed some, I thought. I decided to order a bouquet as I always did, and send it to my sister. I wished so badly I could still send one to Mom. But that was impossible.
On Mom’s birthday, I backed out the driveway on my way to work. Something in the yard caught my eye. I jammed on the brakes. The irises!
One had bloomed with flowers, big and showy and purple, as lovely as they ever had been on the farm.
I smiled and turned my eyes upward. No, I could no longer send flowers to Mom. But somehow, she’d been able to send them to me.
