Geraniums

On my way home today, I approached one of those really expensive houses on Pine Street. The revamped place obviously had undergone multiple serious facelifts since its first construction, but what caught my eye was the addition of a patio. The owner or developer or whoever built the damn thing did a damn good job. The brick-layered, second-floor space with a far-reaching, rectangular green awning was, for lack of a better term, classy. The awning itself even had one of those curly valances at its end — the wavy triangles with softened corners that flutter ever so slightly in the breeze. The patio exuded private tranquility. It whispered the word “sanctuary” to me and other passersby that paid it any mind.

What captivated my attention, though, was not the costly addition or its vintage canopy, but the blood red geraniums the homeowner chose for the square patio’s edges. The unmistakable blooms were innumerably growing from faded black pots as well as flower boxes, which were hanging quite securely to the swirly steel railing that lined the patio’s borders. The plants were healthy, greedy even, pouring out of their pots and boxes, their long clumsy stems jutting every which way and their overambitious green leaves resembling fattened clovers.

Their size made immediate sense in some ways because it was late August. The geraniums had likely been potted back in May, perhaps around Memorial Day, and now were approaching the end of their annual existence. Not every gardener has a green thumb. But it was apparent that the caretaker of these flowers was doing something right — singing, coloring his thumb green, or feeding the geraniums Thanksgiving dinners.

I stopped walking and looked more closely at the patio and geraniums. I realized that there were only geraniums. No other plant or flower or herb or vegetable or tree or green sprout or stray leaf populated the peaceful space. Just geraniums. On my tip-toes, I stood to peer at other possible hiding places for other secret plants, but there was nothing. Nothing but overgrown green surrounded by flourishes of red.

When I was a child, before I could understand the concept of God and constantly argue with myself over it, I believed that Mom made geraniums like Mom made pancakes. My mother was always gardening when she had the chance. With the onset of warm weather and school-less summers, she would show me seeds and smaller store-bought versions of geraniums during past Mays and Junes. Magically, over the course of several months, the seeds and miniature plants transformed into the same unafraid, uninhibited breed of giant geraniums on that patio. Dumbfounded by how my mother could conduct such wizardry, I smiled and giggled at the miracle worker because the geraniums were almost as beautiful as Mom. And that thought made me happy.

As I walked beyond sight of the patio and turned left off Pine Street, I could not help but wish that I was still so awed by some silly flowers and the magical Mother that made them.