Holding Petals of Memory

A very tiny flower story

I haven’t written in a while. Most of my recent writings have been on my main stack, Blackbird Songs. But a tiny flower story has popped into my head just now.

Once, when I was young, and living in my childhood home, we had a Mock Orange flowering tree (or bush) on the side of my house. It was sort of hidden, you could only see it if you wandered out the front of the house, around the corner to your right, past a giant pine tree and there it was, hidden right behind this pine tree that was nearly on the neighbor’s property.

I don’t know how I actually discovered this tree…we really were not allowed out and about in our neighborhood, and this tree was out of the protected fortress of our inner-city-privacy-walled backyard. Maybe my mom is the one who discovered it. I just remembering visiting it every spring, and being so excited when it bloomed. I would cut big bunches of the white flowers and bring them into the house, filling vases and jars with these delicate bunches of tree-flowers.

I think it made my mom happy. I know it made me happy. Maybe she was the first person to bring in bunches of these flowers, and I followed suit. I don’t remember.

I have lost a lot of childhood, young adult, and even middle-age adult memory. I’m not sure if it is the effects of trauma, excessive stress, long-term side effects of medication, or too much self-medication. Or all these things. But I do remember this tree. And it is another flower that has stayed with me. It symbolizes nothing but pure goodness. And rebirth. And remembering. It’s like eating a truffle that has rhubarb cream inside it, that you didn’t realize would be so sharp, tangy and sweet. Seeing this flower/tree, pausing, and letting my memories come up is a sweet surprise that sometimes moves me to tears.

To tears, you might ask? That seems a bit extreme and unstable. I’m sorry friend, but I am a bit extreme and unstable these days. This time of life presents its particular challenges for me, which often bring tears, sadness, or sometimes a sense of nothingness. But don’t worry, there are surprise truffles too, along the way!

These flowers, were a friend, and they continue to be.

When attending Michigan State University, I was overwhelmed and working and socially insecure…but my favorite memory of my time there was the old campus and the blooming Mock-Pear Trees among the other flowering trees. I had my picture taken with my future husband when he graduated MSU, under those trees, by his now deceased parents. My dress had flowers on it and my hair was short and flippy-spikey, attempting to grow out from a pixie-cut.

***

I was surprised one spring, after hubby and I bought our first house together during the dead of winter, to find that the huge tree in our front yard was a white flowering tree, likely a Mock-Pear. I held up my first baby niece, with her shock of beautiful red hair, in front of its flowers and took the most lovely pictures of her beautiful-smiling-baby-face, already in love with her, having only recently met her (she lives across an ocean). I’m still obsessed with her to this day and am thankful to have her love in return. She doesn’t know when I look at her young adult beauty I still see her fairy-like face and dimples; how I mused that I somehow befriended a magic wood-nymph.

***

When we moved to our second house, I transplanted gorgeous Irises from our first house (that have been killed by bulb-eating-evil creatures) and we planted a Mock-Pear Tree. Of course! This tree has tripled in size in the nearly 10 years we have been here.

Yesterday, my youngest daughter, who we bought this house for, wanted to pick from it. And I, for some reason, said no. I’m not sure why. I need to start forgiving my own mother for all the unnecessary “no’s”.

My baby girl played in our front yard, which again, I have been very cautious of her being in alone, due to foster-care-ghosts-of-the-past fears and fast-driving cars. I didn’t realize until now that this fear of kids alone out front was a continuation of what I grew up with. She built a fairy house out of sticks and dandelions.

Today when she comes home I will hand her a jar and tell her to pick away from the tree. Who knows what moments might become part of her many or few memories of childhood happiness.