My mother has this thing with plants. A thing that's been around for most of her life.
Every spring she fetches that old wheelbarrow from the garden house and locates a pair of sharp shears. The old wheel squeaks and shakes as she navigates the rickety barrel across the front yard. She gathers the brush and leaves of old and tosses them over her shoulder and into the bucket. She has a method.
Half the year our basement reflects some sort of undiscovered, albino rainforest. Plants cover the rocky floor, and for half a year, they're safe from the unfriendly elements in their underground hideout.
But today, today, sunlight and warm breezes beckon the rainforest to relocate.
Soon, a collection of assorted hooligan plants crowd the backyard. They're unruly, pale, and a bit decrepit in form.
My mother's pride and joy.
Some plants have been around for many springs. Some she's had even before she had me.
They sit awaiting their turn as my mother considers the perfect spot for their new half-a-year home.
Sometimes, we offer a hand, but most of the time, we know to keep out of the way of my mother's process. It really is her thing, anyways. Plus, we have more important issues to attend to. Someone has to keep watch over those sly goldfish.
Somewhere along the way, my mother developed an an eye for the unlovely. An eye for albino plants that just need some tender care. Plants that need a mother's touch.
And with a little bit of love and sunshine, they bloom into the extraordinary.
And that's what makes spring, spring. My mother's affinity, my mother's love, my mother's pride.
My mother's thing with plants.