There is a cemetery along the walk I take with my dog and as I walk by I study the gravestones. I look at the names and at the dates. Some of them have battery operated lighting, flowers and wreaths, trinkets and a lot of them seem to have been long forgotten.
As I searched for flowers to decorate my mother’s urn inside the house on this beautiful sunny morning, dew still clutching to the short blades of grass and shrubbery, my son tapped me on the shoulder. From behind his back came his once tiny hand holding something. As he extended his hand out to me he said, “Here Mom, these are for you.” He was holding two little bright blue flowers. He smiled and walked off to explore more of the yard.
I wonder how as children we somehow instinctively do this thing; pick out the beauty in the world to give to another.
Now that I am grown and my own mother is no longer here to give beautiful things to, I still pick flowers for her. I set them beside the urn that holds her ashes. I set them beside the picture of her once smiling face.
There is beauty in life and in death.