In my absence -- and hers

The year following a bereavement is littered with stumbling blocks. Holidays and anniversaries catch at you like brambles.

But you probably know this.

So this weekend is a double-whammy:  Mother's Day.  And younger daughter's birthday.  This is the fifth time since younger daughter's actual birth, that both have coincided, but it's the first one since Demeter died.

We'll be okay.  So far, we've made it through Demeter's birthday, St David's Day, Valentine's Day (the day of Demeter's memorial service), my birthday, and elder daughter's birthday.

We also made it through Easter.

I had just recovered from my very first cold in over six years. (There were a lot of things I missed during the pandemic; having colds wasn't on the list.  I bloody loved not having colds.)

This meant I didn't make it over to my mother's condo for more than five days, and on Good Friday, I was finally well enough to go and resume sorting through her things, and water her plants.

Evidently, her Christmas cacti didn't know that it was Easter.

No cockle shells, either

When life slows down, you tend to notice things.

I realize I'm only speaking for myself; life hasn't slowed down for those in essential services: nurses, doctors, care workers, pharmacists, grocery clerks, etc.

And in truth, being somewhat of an introvert, my life isn't particularly less busy; in fact, I'm bewildered by the frequent complaints on social media of being bored, or of having "run out of things to do".

Really? You have the entire internet at your fingertips, and you have nothing to do? Are you that on top of your housework and home maintenance? I never am. Even if I did get on top of everything, there would still be family research, which is endless.

However, part of my day involves walking with my mother, and since she uses a walker (zimmer in Britain), this takes a while, which means noticing things.

This week, I pointed out a cluster of what I took to be bluebells, and Demeter informed me that there are no true bluebells in North America. These are harebells*, and apparently, despite also being named "Scottish bluebells", they are a BC native plant.

I found this out because I have the internet at my fingertips.

*They look a bit small to be associated with hares, though.

Dappled

I gave younger daughter my Nikon, so she could snap scores of pictures, a thing she likes to do at Butchart Gardens. This means waiting while she takes pictures of everything: the sky, the ground-cover, butterflies, the water, individual flowers, beds of flowers.

I looked down and saw this plant, which looks sun-dappled -- but isn't.

I used my phone.

Re-cyclamen

Remember when I said I had a black(ish) thumb?

A year ago, I bought cyclamen plant for younger daughter's birthday. I chose it for two reasons: 1) it wouldn't topple off her breakfast tray; 2) the cluster of blossoms were a satisfying shade of hot pink, just younger daughter's style.

Not the reasoning of a knowledgeable plant-owner, you'll agree. 'Cause I'm not. Not by a long shot. I fully expected the plant to die at some point, particularly residing in younger daughter's mostly darkened bedroom. I'd sneak in periodically and water it, opening the bed curtains.

After some months, I brought the pot into our dining room, which has lot of natural light. As the year wheeled into autumn, then winter, the last of the flowers fell.

I watered it very occasionally - the instructions said only if dry - and it didn't do much of anything, not even bothering to die.

Sometime in late March, I spotted a tell-tale furl of new growth. It turned out to be a leaf, but it was followed by a definite promise of defiant pink.

Demeter, who has been struggling with a balcony refurbishment for the past month - you really don't want to know - gave me a larger pot, and some compost to top it off.

I think it likes it.

Oh pardon me, but Mister Three, why must you paint them red?

Younger daughter and I were descending the hill on Yates Street near our apartment building. In the distance, I could see the pearly-grey smudge of a large fire that destroyed an old deserted building downtown. I can no longer smell, but I felt the scratch at the back of my throat, and a hint of sour taste in my mouth, which reminded me of when the forest fires across BC had even surrounded Victoria with an air quality index of !0+, worse than Beijing.

The sun shone brightly, though, and I veered suddenly into the pathway of the apartment next door. I had spotted a splash of scarlet amid the creamy blossom of a flowering shrub, and thought that surely, it must be from another plant.

It wasn't; it was indeed a lone red flower growing from the same bush. Younger daughter and I gazed at it, before continuing the journey down.

"It reminds me of the cards painting the roses in Alice in Wonderland," I remarked.

Younger daughter chuckled to herself.