Okay, I'll be losing some readers today. I just know it. They'll think I've lost my mind. Losing both parents within two weeks could do that to you...
The amaryllis we enjoyed last November has been dormant since it bloomed. It's still in its original plastic container but no longer camouflaged in a pretty china pot set in a sunny spot. Instead, it keeps me company at the table in the 'back room'. That room with the treadmill which I'll need to hop on following this afternoon's Easter Brunch...
I water the amaryllis now and then but it wasn't until a week ago that it began to re-emerge; first one rounded, green tip, then a second, coming out of the dark root. Just like in the fall, it began to grow at lightning speed. I even measured it by pencil marks on the wall, curious to see what a difference a day makes in the growth of an amaryllis.
Over one half inch.
During the week, it continued to grow but the tall leaves just weren't very strong and eventually they fell over. Collapsed from their base end, they were limp, their tips resting on the marble tabletop. That's how they've been for over a week now yet I couldn't bring myself to cut them off.
It's expected that these holidays following my parents' deaths will be hard but I woke up this morning with an unusually heavy heart. My sister and I are getting closer to some decisions about their ashes.
I've been mushing an idea around, as I like to say. Mushing, mushing, mushing. Is it a good one? Would my parents like it? Will it suit everyone?
How to know?!
I sat down at that 'back room' table as I do almost every day, to check email, to write, to mush things around...
Did I hear something? A soft, whooshy sound? I was sure of it.
I watched both amaryllis leaves begin to rise. Miraculously. In unison. They rose from their lifeless arcs in slow motion, defying gravity, until they were both, once again, completely upright.
I sat a few minutes, staring in wonder, in shock, in delight. How incredible! By the time I recovered and called for Spoke, the heavier one had fallen.