Geraniums

Geraniums remind me of my mother. I distinctly remember the smell of geranium plants, not the flowers, but the smell of the leaves and branches. The laundry room had a row of windows on the south side, with a wide shelf in front of it. She kept plants there in the warmer months. It was northern Wyoming, with frost late and early; the laundry room was only heated by osmosis. Her geraniums rarely bloomed. But she kept them alive, hoping.

My neighbor in Indiana was deadheading the geraniums growing in a pot in her yard; I asked if I could keep one of the sprigs that still had a couple blooms. It's in a cup of water on my table, and I smell it every couple hours.

Geraniums are not the most beautiful, nor are they particularly nice to smell, but man are they durable. They keep going. This sprig has been here a couple days now and shows no sign of changing.

My mom is like those geraniums, durable, lasting, determined. I want to be like my mother, durable, long-lasting, determined. I'm grateful someone else will grow geraniums and share them with me; I don't want my house to smell like that. I just want to remember.