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~*The Gardenia*~
Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, one white gardenia
was delivered anonymously to me at my house. There was never a card or note,
and calls to the florist were in vain, because the purchase was always made
in cash. After a while, I stopped trying to discover the identity of the
sender. I just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical,
perfect white flower nestled in folds of soft pink tissue paper. But I never
stopped imagining who the sender might be. Some of my happiest moments were
spent in day dreams about someone wonderful and exciting, but too shy or
eccentric to make known his or her identity. In my teen years, it was fun
to speculate that the sender might be a boy I had a crush on, or even someone
I didn't know who had noticed me. My mother often contributed to my
speculations. She'd ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special
kindness, who might be showing appreciation anonymously. She reminded me
of the times when I'd been riding my bike and our neighbor drove up with
her car full of groceries and children. I always helped her unload
the car and made sure the children didn't run into the road. Or maybe the
mystery sender was the old man across the street. I often retrieved
his mail during the winter, so he wouldn't have to venture down his icy steps.My
mother did her best to foster my imagination about the gardenia. She wanted
her children to be creative. She also wanted us to feel cherished and loved,
not just by her, but by the world at large. When I was 17, a boy broke
my heart. The night he called for the last time, I cried myself to sleep.
When I awoke in the morning, there was a message scribbled on my mirror in
red lipstick: "Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive." I thought
about that quotation from Emerson for a long time, and I left it where my
mother had written it until my heart healed. When I finally went for the
glass cleaner, my mother knew that everything was all right again. But
there were some hurts my mother couldn't heal. A month before my high school
graduation, my father died suddenly of a heart attack. My feelings
ranged from simple grief to abandonment, fear, distrust and overwhelming
anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life.
I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation, the senior-class
play and the prom - events that I had worked on and looked forward to. I
even considered staying home to attend college instead of going away as I
had planned because it felt safer. My mother, in the midst of her own grief,
wouldn't hear of me missing out on any of these things. The day before my
father died, she and I had gone shopping for a prom dress and had found a
spectacular one -- yards and yards of dotted Swiss in red, white and blue.
Wearing it made me feel like Scarlett O'Hara. But it was the wrong
size, and when my father died the next day, I forgot all about the dress.
My mother didn't. The day before the prom, I found the dress waiting
for me-- in the right size. It was draped majestically over the living room
sofa, presented to me artistically and lovingly. I may not have cared about
having a new dress, but my mother did. She cared how we children felt
about ourselves. She imbued us with a sense of the magic in the world, and
she gave us the ability to see beauty even in the face of adversity. In
truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia--
lovely, strong, perfect, with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died when I was 22, only 10 days after I was married. That
was the year the gardenias stopped coming.
~*author unknown*~
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