September 5, 2015
(If we live with an open and grateful attitude, every
day will bring a gift. This is one of 365 gifts during the year I turned 70.)
It is about six feet tall and looms over a pot of smaller colorful flowers. For the past week, I have observed what I thought were buds at the top of this plant. This morning, the only thing that “bloomed” were seeds, so I guess the “buds” are “seedpods.” Some fluffy white dandelion-like seeds exploded this morning and began an airborne journey to ensure it will be around next year at this time. It seems the purpose of this plant is not colorful beauty but simply propagation.
Why do I water nameless weeds that grow in my flowerpots?
Why do I not delete names and contact information of the deceased from my
Outlook directory? The answer to the first is curiosity; the answer to the
second is a desire to hold on to a memory that lives in a real-time listing. I
do not fool myself. I knew the plant was a weed that could overtake my yard. I
know that my father and mother-in-law are no longer with us and their existence
in my contacts will not bring them back.
I wish I knew the name of the tall weed with
delicate floating seeds, but would it change anything? Only in the sense that
it would create a relationship if I knew what to call it. I know the names of
the deceased still listed in my contacts. I had a relationship with them. Perhaps
I leave their names because we still have a relationship—planted in my memory.
My
gift today is delicate seeds flying away.
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