“This plant belongs in the composter,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head as I surveyed what was left of my latest attempt to grow a gardenia—nothing but mottled yellow leaves and shriveled brown buds that hung limply off the brittle branches. Heaven knows, I’d tried everything my mother taught me about caring for houseplants—more light, less water, spraying, fertilizing, re-potting, even prayer—but nothing seemed to work.
I wish Mama were here now, I thought. Mother’s Day was coming up, the second one since her death, and the pain of losing her was still so fresh.
There is a Mother’s Day tradition I follow of wearing a red flower if one’s mother is alive and a white one if she is not. I had hoped that cultivating a white gardenia, Mama’s favorite flower, would help me through the grief of her passing.
Mama had a way with all things green. My sister and I always joked, “Mama could make a telephone pole sprout leaves and bear fruit.”
Why can’t I? I thought. Still, I couldn’t bear to throw the dead plant away. Instead, I stuffed it into a dark corner of our bathroom. I didn’t water it, didn’t prune it. I just left it there until I could deal with it.
My husband had asked me if I was going to wear a white corsage to church that Mother’s Day. And wear my grief like a badge for all to see?
“No,” I told him. “I know it’s been over a year, but I’m just not ready yet.” And I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, I added silently.
Sunday morning I woke up early to get dressed for church. Still groggy, I walked to the bathroom. Suddenly I was jolted awake by a pleasant scent. Did someone spray air freshener in there? I wondered. I pushed the door open and stepped into the bathroom.
That morning I knew I would be ready to wear a white corsage for Mama. In that dark corner, bright as if it had a light of its own, bloomed a perfect white gardenia.
