Who will care for the flowers? A call to the next generation

The key to the front door is now in the hands of strangers. They’re probably moving boxes in, thinking about what color to paint the walls, adjusting the couch against the front window just so. 

It’s an odd feeling. Mom died last year. Dad 10 months prior.  The little yellow house in the woods kept the reality of their passing at bay. Now, it’s real.

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Set in the woods, just a few blocks away from the Lake they loved, it was nothing fancy. But it was home. Dad’s favorite place was on the back porch, smoking his pipe, cherry tobacco floating through the crisp air. Overlooking the porch was a massive bear, carved from a dead Douglas fir tree that had to be removed. Mom called him Barnabas and had, “Love bears all” carved into the frontside. She was very clever.

Mom always had mounds of flowers in the backyard, most planted from seed. She embraced the process of seed pressed to soil brought alive by water and sunshine. She watered them every morning, singing hymns and talking to the blooms in a clear voice of encouragement.

I was surprised to see so many of the flowers still alive. A long, hot summer with no one to care for them, yet they found a way to survive. Some, even flourished.  The Forget-Me-Nots craned their blooms to the sun and the daisy’s shimmied in the breeze to attract a passing bee. I watered them and they wave back at me in silent thanks. “We’re good.”

I peek in the windows. The wall where all of the family photos hung is now empty, little nail holes the only visible sign of the generations who have gone on before.

They were married 63 years. Not all of them were easy. There were failures, disappointments, and deceptions. And there joys, victories and miracles. They never quit on each other.

There was really little left nothing of any material blessing to pass on. My sister has some memorabilia. I have Mom’s jeep with 180K miles on it. Someone in the coroner’s office has her wedding ring. After the funeral and the final bills, there wasn’t much else left. So I shuffle through photos, trying to refresh the memories that seem to get a little fuzzy. It hits me. I’m a rich man. 

As I look in the mirror, I realize that I’m the the senior generation and the heavy responsibility of legacy now falls to me. It’s been that way for everyone who has ever gone before me.

I’m not really not ready. There are still a few more questions to ask. But I can only whisper them in the form of prayers, hoping for wisdom to somehow find me..

When the doubt creeps in, I think about those resilent flowers. Left on their own, they’re still thriving with no to care for them except the rain and sun from above.

Please, share with a friend if you feel moved.
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