Blue

Every spring my mom hung baskets of sweet bluebells on her porch. The sometimes periwinkle and other times violet blooms looked perfect with her blue and white bungalow. When I moved into my own quaint bungalow, she would deliver a couple baskets to me every Mother's Day. Yes, before I was even a mom. They popped against the pale yellow and lannon stone facade and they flowered all summer long. They were happiness in a basket.

The spring after my mom passed I visited her nursery to see about getting some bluebells myself. This tradition was one of many I felt more than compelled to continue, but the clerk had no clue what I was talking about. I scoured the perimeter of the place never to find what I was looking for. It felt like another death. I burst into tears. I had angry words with you know who about enough and fairness and breaking points.

I made phone calls, I searched every other nursery in the area, I prayed. That spring I had to go without my bluebells. It was a lesson I was becoming familiar with. I heard my mom many times in that confusing season of rebirth. She said, "It is what it is." That was her line.

Fast forward a year, maybe two. I'm at this massive nursery in the middle of nowhere. To this day I'm not sure in what town despite the fact that I've made my way there every year since. I just get in my car and head in that direction and will my way to Groths. It seems I never take the same way twice, but I always find my way. I find my way there because they have my bluebells. Only they're not exactly called bluebells. They're called strepto carpella and that explains a whole heck of a lot, but, of course, they'll forever be bluebells to me.

Last year I was too late. I waited too long and all the bluebells were hanging on other homes. I was under the false impression they grew them just for me. I've never seen them in any other yard or garden ever. I was sort of devastated. I left with nothing except sadness.

That was not happening to me this year. I've been thinking about my bluebells, worrying about them,  and talking about them. My guy heard me. He drove out to Groths after a long day at work to pick up three and bring them home to me for Mother's Day, and it was just about the nicest thing he could have done. Except, then last night he brought my babies into the garage to protect them from the cold and I fell in love with him all over again.

I'm missing my mom something fierce this year. I'm pretty sure the many happy milestones we're celebrating remind me so poignantly of my loss. In the excitement of taking prom pictures of my handsome 6 foot something son or shopping for an 8th grade graduation dress with my long-haired, leggy daughter, I feel this quiet sorrow. It's there too when I watch my son at the altar receive the gift of the holy spirit knowing that so much of this faith journey started with her receiving her last rites. It's present when we move forward further from lives she was a part of...lives she loved being a part of. That's the thing: no event or occasion was too small or insignificant for her to miss. She wanted to be there for all of them. They all mattered. And as much as I miss her as my mother, I miss her a million times more as their nanny.