• ebhowell

Mimosa's for mom

The mimosa tree. I spotted it on the Spanish Moss Trail with pink fluffy feathery blossoms.

It looks tropical, fairy-like and almost out of place in the brambly woods that separates a marsh and a paved trail for bikers, runners and dedicated fisherman who walk to their fishing hole.

As I child when the mimosa tree blossomed in our backyard, I’d ask my mom for a boost to clip off a few of the pink poofs.

Mom would limit how much of the tree I could snip. She was moderate even in the middle of a creative task, “Cut three or four and leave the rest to enjoy later.” Inside, she’d give me two plastic cups to float a few blossoms. I’d take the overflowing cups and place them by my bed and on my mother’s bedside table. I learned this from a hotel: flowers by your bedside are a sophisticated decorative touch.

Within an hour she would move her pink arrangement to the bathroom, saying, “Allergies, you know I can’t have flowers by my head.”

Pollen couldn’t stop me from enjoying this magical May flower that now reminds me of my mom. She balanced me, tempered me and guided my energy. She was never overexcited about the possibilities of the pink blossoms – pressing the flowers for decoration, drying the poofs for potpourri, and of course making a new perfume called “pink me.”

Mom taught me compromise and compassion while cutting fewer blossoms, and she guided me without discouraging my imagination.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Mom on Valentine's Day1969, the day my parents got engaged.

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