My Mother's House is Full

I believe my car could find its way home even if I forgot.  If I was blinded, I could see the path clearly laid out before me.  If I was struck memoryless, I'm certain the cells of my body would pull me along, straight back to that door.  


Arriving to see blooming bulbs in the middle of a desert is odd to say the least.  For the most part -- except for the stunning sunrises and sunsets -- the palate of the desert is muted and bland, camouflaged from itself.  But there they were in the front yard greeting me, an entire bed of irises.  Color is not part of my early memories.  


I can walk in that front door all these years later and feel a sense of belonging.  It is still my house even when it's not.  


We wordlessly orbited, a silent ballet -- mother, son, daughters -- artful movements set to the music of life.    It calls to mind instantly the cleaning and packing of years ago, before I set off abroad.  My sister and I singing our way together up to the point of departure. Working together and apart in different rooms, walking towards and past one another, humming the same tune, singing along with the same song.  Ships.  Stars.  Satellites.   

Intuitively, our togetherness migrated immediately to the backyard, the strong sunshine, the garden that survives the harshest environment.


I see another silent ballet in my mind's eye -- tables, chairs, decorations all laid out for big birthday or remarkable retirement.  We work well together.  We speak the language of people who share a common past, one that centers on silence and understanding. 


Lilacs.  Talk of their origin.  Their quick blooming and passing this year.  Their tendency to want to shrivel up as soon as they are separated from their roots.  We are so like them.  "Hammer them as soon as they're cut, otherwise they won't absorb the water," my mother warns.  "Hammer them?" "Yes." 


The irises in the back rival the ones in the front.  Yellows.  Purples.  An almost brown....the deepest of dark purples.  


Roses.  Blooms that go on for days.  Long stems.  Sharp reminders of the pains of life.  Trimmed buds.  Delicate and showy.  


My mother's house is full.  Five bedrooms full of furniture, tools for living, pictures.  My mother's house is full of outdated everything, garbage to some, the onus of years.  My mother's house is full of the accumulation of lives well lived.  And vases.  


The gathered bouquet set inside a sturdy, rectangular, glass vase.  Surely the remnant of some past arrangement -- something I would have donated to a worthy cause.  Something my mother saw fit to keep.


Corals. Yellow.  Pale purple.  Bold purple.  A fragrance unlike any store-bought, florist-delivered bouquet.  


We have done this dance before together.  We know the steps and the tempo of the music.  We are studied in this area, have practiced, keep practicing.  


The ride in the car, my mom as driver, her full grown children as passengers -- just like a childhood trip, except for the lack of complaining, "Are we there yet?"  No jumping over the backseat into the way back.  No mother with her hand flailing in our direction trying to make contact.  


Our togetherness stood out among the others...its vibrant sense of life, that just pickedness of it, the scent.  It took its place with the rest, but I heard people talking about it.  "What is that great smell?"  "Oh, look, lilacs."  "Those roses are gorgeous."  Our togetherness.  There in the midst.  


We've done this before.  


My mother's house is full.  I am so fortunate.