|image credit: here|
It was before bed time, the sky was pink and dusky blue, begging us for some time. The kids and I set out, out walking the day light, reaching the fallen tree by the time the sky was newly dark. On our way we passed flowers planted along the park perimeter, and were passed by pick-up trucks- one after another. We filled my pockets with dead flower heads and a couple of live ones too.
We turned back, following street lights and the rhythmic sounds of hip-hop - the sounds that play a back drop to our gardening, our play, our laundry hanging- the sounds that lead us home. Hip-hop, R&B, rap...
We returned home with Buddy on my back and Moonpie carrying the bouquet we wove together on our journey.
Buddy busied himself with flower arranging, and I began the task of collecting seeds. The black-eyed Susans handed over their seeds happily, dropping them by the dozens on the kitchen island. I pulled out my seed saving tubes, wrote out the labels, and tucked the seeds away with a smile. Easy, satisfying work.
Until I came to the echinacea.
She guarded her seeds fiercely with prickles that kept digging into my fingers. I marveled out how desperately she held onto her seeds when she was designed to eventually have to let them go. That is the point of flowers after all (so my botany professor taught me), to spread more seed and guarantee that the species will go on.
And of course, viewing all things through mama eyes I thought of my own seeds. My two little lovelies. And I could commiserate with this plant. Wanting so badly to hold on, to protect, fully knowing that one day they must go on - and I must let go.