Twenty-one Years Today

Alison Boylston Piazza, November 18, 1913 - March 14, 1992.

A few years before my mother died, she planted a handful of crocus bulbs in the front of the Main Street house. Within only a few years they had multiplied to the point of the small front yard between the porch and the sidewalk's being a sea of purple. After her death, they always came into bloom right around her anniversary, beginning with a few blooms around March 14, the day she died, and climaxing by March 21, the day she was buried. Who doesn't love spring and seeing the first crocus blooming, but I have always found the blooming of these particular crocuses (crocii, actually, but who ever says that?) reassuring; this not-so-subtle hint of the theme of new life and resurrection being tied directly to my mother. The blooms have dwindled over the years - and I do wonder if the greens-boosting fertilizer that a well-meaning tenant applied to the lawn a few years back is to blame - and perhaps I will replenish the crop at some point - but I do look forward to their blooming every year, and what better day - or way - to get out and rake and clean - waking up the large muscle group while honoring my dear mother - than today?