Spring Sprang Sprung

Springtime.

Yellow daffodils, pink hyacinths. Kids riding bikes.

Mother’s Day.

It’s gotten me thinking a lot about cycles – tricycles and bicycles, sleep cycles, seasonal cycles. And the cycle of life and death.

This will be the first Mother’s Day without my mom. I like to say that Mom watches over me from above – literally – because her picture sits on top of my fridge. I catch her eye when I grab a glass of milk. Sometimes she winks back.

This weekend I will put flowers on the ancestors’ graves. For some, visiting the cemetery is morbid. Or creepy. But it was Mom’s and my spring ritual for years. Together, we would take the 90-minute drive to the graves of her parents, brother, grandparents. I’d weed and plant flowers, while she told me their stories.

Sometimes Mom didn’t remember much, especially about her brother, Donny. She was twelve when he died. He liked Al Jolson and he raised pigeons, she’d say, and grandfather was a circus performer. Donny is buried alongside his grandfather and others near the large pine tree, while my grandparents are together up the path under the maples.

Afterwards, Mom and I would go out to eat. Mom’s preference – a Harvey’s burger.

This year, I’ll visit the cemetery by myself, unless I can convince my daughter to pick up the tradition. (Doubtful.) Or maybe hubby will be my pity-companion. Even if I’m by myself, I won’t be alone – I’ll have their stories and my mother’s voice to keep me company.

And afterwards, a fat juicy burger with hot peppers.

Photo credit: Eilis Garvey on Unsplash

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