“Look, I just have to show you this,” my mom said, as she came through the bedroom door at 11:30 pm – yes I said pm – the other night. Actually, saying she came through the door is a misnomer. She came in carefully so she wouldn’t get overbalanced seeing as she held something in her hands, which is never the best way for her to walk around the house. In fact, she very rarely, if ever, goes anywhere without her ruby red walker, but here she was closing in on the midnight hour with of all things a plant in her hands.
Yes I said a plant. The very same plant that I can’t stand having in the kitchen windowsill let alone my bedroom. In the kitchen it blocks the view, gets in the way when I open the window and is an all around irritant to me – sounds odd I know, but really the only houseplants I like are Ficus Benjamin’s because I can keep them alive, everything else not so much, I’ve even managed to kill cactus -. My mom’s been keeping this plant, a little geranium, alive since she was given it at a church tea back in April. It was a centerpiece then, a little green plant with one hot pink bloom on it that sat in the middle of the tea table. When she got it home she insisted that it had to stay in the kitchen window to stay alive.
I indulged her desire to keep the little plant in the kitchen window where it seemed happy enough to produce a multitude of pink blooms throughout the Spring, then abruptly stopped blooming around the beginning of Summer.
“Can we get rid of this now?” I asked her when she came into the kitchen a few weeks ago, as I pointed to the bedraggled looking plant that looked as though it had seen better days and bloomed its last bloom.
“Noooooo,” she replied emphatically.
“You sure?” was my reply.
“It will be fine,” she said before turning her back on me, and opening the refrigerator door.
I noticed in the weeks that followed the plant did seem to be doing better. My mom was pinching off the dead, long branches, keeping it watered and most of all making sure it stayed in that very sunny spot in our house. The leaves became more healthy looking, and the plant itself was being turned every couple of days so each side would get exposure to the sunlight.
So I wondered what in the world was going on with the plant when she brought it into the bedroom the other night.
“See,” she said walking the foot or two it took to get from the door to the end of my bed – shoebox house remember? Very small. – holding the plant out for me to see. “A flower’s coming out.”
Sitting up I saw that she was right, there delicately balanced on a long stem was the blooming bud of a bright pink flower.
“And you wanted to throw it out,” she continued, as she looked at the plant and its flower with pleasure.
“You’re right,” I said leaning forward to look at the little bit of pink showing itself through the green at the end of the stem that held it in place. “It’s pretty.” And it was, the new growth seeming so out of place to me especially since it seemed to be plumb out of blooming power just a few days before.
“I just had to show you,” she said as she wobbled out the bedroom door, putting the plant carefully on her walker before taking out to its place of honor on the kitchen windowsill. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched her go around the corner of the hallway and disappear into the kitchen. Sometimes there are times when you think something has bloomed its last bloom, only to find out there may be more than a few flowers left in it.