I killed a couple hundred dollars worth of plants and flowers over the weekend. Technically, said plants and flowers are still alive and well, but I know, my friends and family know, hell, the plants probably know that it is only a matter of time before they begin to wilt and then turn crispy in the unrelenting Carolina summer sun.
I don’t want this to happen. I just accept that it will.
I am a pragmatic optimist.
Therefore, every spring, which in Charlotte lasts a solid four days before the temperature rockets to roughly that of the surface of the sun, I head out with the throngs of other suburbanites in an attempt to shake off the greyness of winter by planting joyful colors.
As I’m planting them, I whisper to them, this is the year, darlings. This is the year that I don’t get bored with watering you nor irritated that you’re not just a little more self-sufficient and tough like your cousin the dandelion. This is the year that I will nurture you for the duration.
They just smile warily and begin to accept their fate that nothing gold can stay.
My potted plants always make me think of my mama. She and I were never much alike, from our eye color to our care of plants, as she had a thumb that shone as green as the grass at Augusta. We bounced from busted up rentals and beaten down trailers at a pace that had we planted perennials we rarely would have known if they succeeded in blooming the following year. However, she carted her thriving potted plants with her everywhere. I can hear her laughing, the hearty, sweet laugh that she had when she was in a good way, and feel her shaking her head when I plunge my hands down into the rich potting soil. She whispers, “You sure never give up, do you, Sosh?”
Fortunately, a few years ago, my in-laws gifted me with some hearty perennials for the front of my house. As my daughter got older, my mother-in-law put her in charge of remembering to water these roses and hydrangeas. She does a good job with this; enjoying the fact that they come back year after year. I think that she believes that all the flowers and plants that reside in pots at our house are simply cursed because of some foliage atrocity her mother committed in a former life and therefore, won’t take on the care of them as well.
When I pull into the driveway of the house I have been fortunate enough to share with my mother-in-law’s son for almost 20 years and see the vibrant red knock-outs peacocking about, I am often overcome with a joy that will on occasion reduce me to tears.
The roses are a visual representation of how far I have come thanks in large part to the woman who has loved me as one of her own since I was 18 years old. The one who always comes back.
And, the temporary potted plants and flowers also fill me with joy and the good, golden memories of my mom. With her, like my plants, I was a pragmatic optimist. I understood that she most likely was never going to change. We didn’t have much of a relationship when she died, but until then I never gave up hope that this would be our year.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
