Posy Prerogative

As I round the corner at the top of the stairs, I spot her door right away. A year or so ago, she cleverly thought to display a Dollar Tree flyswatter (disguised as a daisy) outside her apartment in order to assist her upstairs neighbor in distinguishing his door from her’s.*  Leave it to Cool Grandma B. to come up with such a simple – yet effective - solution.

I knock lightly on the door and hear her sweet familiar voice welcome me in.  The minute I open the door, her face creases into a smile and she beckons me to join her in her sitting area.  Just as I’m about to settle into one of her vintage rocking armchairs, she surprises me by motioning excitedly towards the wall.

“Look at my posy!”  She exclaims.

I glance in the direction of her excitement and notice a small potted cluster of three flowers resting on her side table.  Only two have bloomed, vibrant red with yellow centers.  The other remains bashfully tucked into a bud, its petals just beginning to blossom.

“Your dad and Ann brought that for me,” She continues.

Her sheer joy at this simple gesture is contagious, and I grin as I turn from the flowers to her.  “It’s lovely.” I say.

But it’s more than lovely to her.  It’s a memory.

This is the amazing thing about my grandmother: she may be nearly three quarters of a century older than me**, but when you get her talking about something in her life – no matter how long ago it occurred – she’ll tell you the story as if it just happened yesterday.

To be honest, I did not inherit this skill.  

In fact, it’s only been a few short months and I’ve already forgotten the name of this thoughtfully gifted floral trio which brought my grandma so much joy.  But she didn’t.  Not only did she remember the name of this particular plant; it prompted a fond (and descriptive) recall of annual blooms in her neighbor's garden in Grants Pass.

I'm certain my father and stepmother were unaware of the significance when they originally purchased the gift, which makes the whole thing even more delightful to me.  

Of all the things that have occurred during my grandma's life, all the memories vying for space in her heart, this sweet and simple one made the cut.

My short afternoon visit with Cool Grandma B. encouraged me to take stock of my own heart-space and consider which memories I want to grant the prerogative to blossom, knowing their sweetness might creep up in the most unexpected ways for years to come.

* Apparently this sort of mix-up is somewhat common in an assisted living facility?
**Okay that's kind of a stretch. She's not that old (or, alternately, I'm not that young).