I saw them once; maybe it was a week ago? No my mind has cut out a two week trip to England propelled by grief and circling loss embedded with music and old, old hills. And so after four last-minute flights are paid and our accountant does his best to juggle our myriad experiences, assets and errors into spreadsheet format I have only thirty dollars left, in my bank account.
I remember the geraniums because of the large ceramic planter on my porch filled with weeds, and because of the smart ladies outside the upmarket supermarket casually throwing them into their shopping carts. And I remember them in the lineup on the last day of April at the bank, where everyone is paying their taxes in the nick of time. Now the sun is out and a riot of incredible flowers is exploding in my front yard – roses, rhododendrons and bluebells unfurl brightly as the blossoms continue to fall like white rain.
The pale blue-grey paint on the front porch is peeling badly. When I sweep, a little more comes away. I imagine its decrepitude offset by red geraniums, which bring me to every Mediterranean urn, every dusty cart track and old lady flapping white laundry in the alps, the view from every barge in Venice and even Cornish courtyards I hold dear. And I think I may have to take out that last thirty bucks and, letting the earth find her way deep under my fingernails, plant them and so feel their bright abundance blessing my every homecoming.