Dearest Hydrangea
Dearest Hydrangea,
Does it feel silly too you, too, that I am writing? A poet friend offered me the prompt of crafting an “untraditional love letter.” Leave it to the damn bards to push us Amelia Bedelia types out of our comfort zone. At first, I thought pshh, she can’t make me write a love letter. I’ll just work on my novel instead. But then, sensing my rebellion, she suggested that I write to you, Hydrangea. After all, I’d been gushing about the shady setting of the bistro table resting on flagstone where we were seated, surrounded by you on three sides with your branches nearly reaching the top of the fencing.
Some folks might look at you and see bulbous heads almost as big as their own in white or pink, sometimes even periwinkle blue. But you’re more than the byproduct of optimal soil acidity, sunshine, and water to me. To me, you are my mother’s care. She tucked you in the exact spot in her garden where you’d get just enough sun but without scorching your petals with the afternoon heat. She would amend the soil, just the way you liked it. Sometimes with stinky fish emulsion. There was also something about staking a rusty nail at your base to turn your color blue.
When I see you, I’m also reminded of Mom’s generosity because it wasn’t enough for her to enjoy your beauty in her own yard—she wanted people she loved to know your lacy elegance too. She gifted potted starters in a Monet-like blue and pink swirly lining that fanned out over the edges of their plastic pots to look like tissue paper, the wrapping of a gift. Then, when she visited the homes of her recipients, she would make sure you were tended to, placed in the right spot in the window for optimal sun and shade. She’d add water, clip away leaves that had yellowed, blooms that had wilted. But before long, she’d remind us that it was time to transplant you into the garden where you might have perennial life, bringing delight to our yards in spring and summer.
I love knowing that Mom learned to appreciate you from her own mom. Grandma’s gardens taught me that a person need not have big and fancy things, but they could take great care with what things they do have. Her tiny home with one bathroom was filled with love and pretties, her yard bursting with geranium, roses, baby’s breath, and ferns. She passed on her love for making things beautiful to her daughter who then passed this sense of pride and care to me, to make things as beautiful as we can.
You, majestic Hydrangea, are more than meets my eyes. Thank you for being a generational heritage that manages to tug at my grieving heart, hold me tethered to motherly and grandmotherly love, and remind me that pride doesn’t cost a dime.
Love,
Shana
