As I get older, I look back on my childhood and all the outdoor adventures my siblings and I were so fortunate to share. We were able to ramble and explore the woods and fields near our home, and one of my fondest memories brings me to my first love of flowers.
One day, while walking along the railroad tracks, we came across a path that led to a very old cemetery. Wildflowers grew among the gravestones, and we read the names and dates out loud and wondered who they were. We even made up stories about their lives.
I remember seeing some small blue flowers. They were delicate and looked so pretty among the white and yellow ones. I thought of Mom, and how she would love a bouquet of all these flowers. When I presented them to her, she smiled with glee—and then asked if I knew their names. I hadn’t even considered that they had names. I just thought they were pretty. She smiled again and began to tell me what they were called. At the time, I was only intrigued by the tiny blue ones. I thought, What a wonderful name, forget-me-not. She told me they were my grandmother’s favorite flower, which made them even more special.
On my next visit to Grandma’s, she sent me off to explore her yard. Sure enough, there they were: forget-me-nots, growing along the side of her house. Maybe because I was always so excited to see Grandma and explore all the treasures in her house and attic, I had always raced past these little blue beauties.
Many years have passed since Grandma had to leave us. When I got a garden at my own home, a dear friend gave me a patch of wild forget-me-nots. They are now sprinkled throughout all my gardens and always bring a smile and warm feelings.
Mom has reached a time in her life that recalling and remembering are difficult. When she looks at me now and our eyes connect, I see the same blue color as the flowers. As we look in each other’s eyes, we are searching for each other, and we are both thinking:
“Please, forget me not.” ❖