Generations

You rub the leaf between your finger and thumb, and the scent of garlic wafts to your nose, and you remember.

Twelve months ago your mother forgot the name Garlic Mustard, the plant you now bend over. No worries, you thought. She still remembers all the lore behind the name.

Eight months ago your mother forgot all the lore behind the name along with all the natural lore she knew. With sadness you thought, She’s still smarter than all the other 89-year-olds.

Six months ago your mother forgot you. “I’ll remember,” you told her, squeezing her hand. “I’ll hold it all for you.”

A month ago your mother died. You are bent over the garlic mustard. You are silent as tears slide down your cheeks. You think, I’m a bad daughter for thinking death was the easy part.

“Look what I found!”

You take a deep breath and wipe away the tears. You turn toward your smiling daughter.

“What have you got?”

“A ladybug! She has an even number of dots. Gran said that was lucky.”

You grin, and the green spring around you unfolds in your heart as the sunshine warms your back.


G = Garlic mustard

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