she said. “But inside the envelope is more.”
“More?”
“More tidbits about orchids, as well as a letter.”
“A letter?”
“From my mother.”
“Oh, really?”
“My mother was an amazing woman, who taught me everything she wanted me to know about life by way of the garden. Whenever I give flowers to someone, I include sayings my mother once wrote.”
“Oh,” I said curiously. I knew nothing about gardening, or life, or so I had felt lately.
“Remember,” she went on, “orchids aren’t weak. The world thinks they are, but they’re not. In fact, I kept one on my bureau for weeks after my bunion surgery, to remind me how strong and sturdy I was despite what doctors tried telling me.”
“What did they try telling you?”
She shook her head. “That my body is weak, but don’t get me started.”
I turned and set the pot on the console behind me, then gave the console a shake. “Too wobbly?” I asked, kidding.
“I’d say most definitely yes.”
Too bad, I thought. It’ll have to do for now. I’m sure a wobble or two won’t kill the thing. But when she blew a kiss to it, I felt the burden of taking on the responsibility for a flower she loved. “Tell me,” I said, “where’d you buy it?” I wanted to know so I could run to the store and replace it should it bend over and die. I did that for my sons’ goldfish and they never knew.
“This particular one I started from seedlings that I bought in four-inch pots almost two years ago,” she said in a proud, motherly tone. “I’ve nearly grown it into maturity myself.”
Darn, I thought. “You’re like a mother to it,” I said.
“Caretaker,” she corrected. “And, as much as I’ve grown to love it, it doesn’t belong to me and I must let it go. It should flower any day.”
“Let’s hope,” I said, conjuring how I might go about getting her to leave. “So nice of you to stop by. Did I already ask your name?”
“Fedelina,” she said. “Fedelina Aurelio.”
“Aurelio—I think it’s the name of a place that had great pizza when I was a child. You didn’t own a pizzeria, did you?”
“I married an Italian man, but, no, Oscar never owned a restaurant, never made a pizza in all his life, though that is not to say he didn’t love pizza. But me, I’m Irish. My father was an old-fashioned man who came from Ireland—scared to death his daughter would be taken advantage of. He told my mother the day I was born, ‘Cora, you tell our girl all there is to know about the birds and the bees, the flowers and the trees! I don’t want to worry about any of that.’”
She picked her straw bag up in one hand and took hold of the woodenrailing with the other. It looked to me, by the way she shifted the position of her blocky orthopedic shoes, as if she were ready to make her descent down my steps, but then she turned her head and looked me in the eyes and said, “I’ve come for another reason, Anna.”
“Oh?”
“I grew up in one of those good old neighborhoods where you knew everyone’s name and could stop over to borrow an egg. Not that this isn’t a good street; it is, but times have changed. People are busy …”
“My last egg dropped, had a great fall,” I said.
“I didn’t come for an egg,” she said.
“You saw the ambulance out front?”
“Is everything all right?” she then asked.
“My daughter had a febrile seizure. Her fever skyrocketed within seconds.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“I was.”
“Is she okay now? Is there anything you need help with?”
“She’s fine now. She and her brothers are off with their grandparents for a week. I wish I had kept her home, told them ‘no’ when they came to get her. I feel guilty for having let her go.”
“All mothers feel that.”
“What?”
“Guilt,” she said. “No mother feels she does enough. It’s the hardest job in the world, isn’t it?”
I looked her in the eyes, eyes that were blue and old, belonging to the era of
“More?”
“More tidbits about orchids, as well as a letter.”
“A letter?”
“From my mother.”
“Oh, really?”
“My mother was an amazing woman, who taught me everything she wanted me to know about life by way of the garden. Whenever I give flowers to someone, I include sayings my mother once wrote.”
“Oh,” I said curiously. I knew nothing about gardening, or life, or so I had felt lately.
“Remember,” she went on, “orchids aren’t weak. The world thinks they are, but they’re not. In fact, I kept one on my bureau for weeks after my bunion surgery, to remind me how strong and sturdy I was despite what doctors tried telling me.”
“What did they try telling you?”
She shook her head. “That my body is weak, but don’t get me started.”
I turned and set the pot on the console behind me, then gave the console a shake. “Too wobbly?” I asked, kidding.
“I’d say most definitely yes.”
Too bad, I thought. It’ll have to do for now. I’m sure a wobble or two won’t kill the thing. But when she blew a kiss to it, I felt the burden of taking on the responsibility for a flower she loved. “Tell me,” I said, “where’d you buy it?” I wanted to know so I could run to the store and replace it should it bend over and die. I did that for my sons’ goldfish and they never knew.
“This particular one I started from seedlings that I bought in four-inch pots almost two years ago,” she said in a proud, motherly tone. “I’ve nearly grown it into maturity myself.”
Darn, I thought. “You’re like a mother to it,” I said.
“Caretaker,” she corrected. “And, as much as I’ve grown to love it, it doesn’t belong to me and I must let it go. It should flower any day.”
“Let’s hope,” I said, conjuring how I might go about getting her to leave. “So nice of you to stop by. Did I already ask your name?”
“Fedelina,” she said. “Fedelina Aurelio.”
“Aurelio—I think it’s the name of a place that had great pizza when I was a child. You didn’t own a pizzeria, did you?”
“I married an Italian man, but, no, Oscar never owned a restaurant, never made a pizza in all his life, though that is not to say he didn’t love pizza. But me, I’m Irish. My father was an old-fashioned man who came from Ireland—scared to death his daughter would be taken advantage of. He told my mother the day I was born, ‘Cora, you tell our girl all there is to know about the birds and the bees, the flowers and the trees! I don’t want to worry about any of that.’”
She picked her straw bag up in one hand and took hold of the woodenrailing with the other. It looked to me, by the way she shifted the position of her blocky orthopedic shoes, as if she were ready to make her descent down my steps, but then she turned her head and looked me in the eyes and said, “I’ve come for another reason, Anna.”
“Oh?”
“I grew up in one of those good old neighborhoods where you knew everyone’s name and could stop over to borrow an egg. Not that this isn’t a good street; it is, but times have changed. People are busy …”
“My last egg dropped, had a great fall,” I said.
“I didn’t come for an egg,” she said.
“You saw the ambulance out front?”
“Is everything all right?” she then asked.
“My daughter had a febrile seizure. Her fever skyrocketed within seconds.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“I was.”
“Is she okay now? Is there anything you need help with?”
“She’s fine now. She and her brothers are off with their grandparents for a week. I wish I had kept her home, told them ‘no’ when they came to get her. I feel guilty for having let her go.”
“All mothers feel that.”
“What?”
“Guilt,” she said. “No mother feels she does enough. It’s the hardest job in the world, isn’t it?”
I looked her in the eyes, eyes that were blue and old, belonging to the era of
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