Freewheeling Blog: Planting Zinnias with my Mother

I feel the closest to my late mother when I’m planting flowers. She had a green thumb; I don’t. But she taught me how to gently pull the roots away from the container dirt so the flower had the best chance of surviving. I think of her every single time I tug at a flower’s roots.

Mom would never give up on a plant. She believed if the roots were good, the plant would thrive again. Usually, she was right. My wife Sara says Dot could make a stick grow.

I planted zinnias on the day before Mother’s Day. You can’t plant zinnias too soon, as they hate the cold. So, I reserved space in various places across the yard and placed bright yellow zinnias on a warm day to round out spring planting.

This month marks three years since Dot passed. My caregiving PTSD is starting to fade. I don’t like remembering her final months when I was her primary caregiver. I recently came across photos of her healthier days; they were welcome sights.

I have mixed emotions about my mother. I would have changed some of her decisions and character traits if I could. I may have been the only person who knew how to fight with her. Mom and I could have a huge argument, and ten minutes later, our relationship was back to normal. I guess we treated each other like plants, never giving up on the other.

If Dot were here, I know she’d be proud of what I’m doing these days. In fact, in her last coherent moments before she lapsed into silence, Mom told my sister she was proud of me for something I did for her that day. But I think my mother may have been referring to big picture pride as well.

I felt like I planted zinnias with my mom on Mother’s Day Eve. She liked few things better than looking over my shoulder, telling me how to do it right. On this day, her guidance rang in my ears as my fingers clawed in the dirt and my tears watered the flowers. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.