This is the time of year she'd take a drive on a Saturday morning by herself. I don't know where the place was, but she knew it from days gone by.
It was her job, nobody elses, all those springs after the snow melted and the dirt in the cement pots on the walls and steps of the porch soft and wet.
Usually, she planted white petunias, but sometimes they were pink or streaked with red. I must have helped because I remember the words "flats," "annuals," "perennials," and the rusty hand held shovel she used to dig out the decayed roots and plant the tender shoots.
I thought that's what all grandmother's did, watering them after church, waiting and wondering what kind of year it would be.
Would they cascade like fat curtains of pure velvet flesh down the worn bricks ? Or wouldn't the water be enough, or the sun too hot and the blooms dwarfed and gnarled, afraid to open, until the year came we stood in awe and her precious hopes were fulfilled.
(Almost a Petunia)
Planting petunias isn't a sure thing. It takes patience and constant care to welcome the summer's guests, to sit on the porch surrounded by their soft elegance on the rocking swings sipping cold lemonade.
Grandma showed us we knew who we were and where we came from, where we were going, and what we would do when we got there.
Technical credits: Mercedes Arnao