Vases

On the day after Mothers Day, my vases tell a short story about a longer story, a one-day flash about a 10,950-day saga, a child’s pop-up book about a thumping three-inch tome. I love hosting Mothers Day parties. They are my chances to make my house “pop” once a year to honor the woman who made our family home lovely for decades. My chances to practice “cuisine-art” once a year for Mom, who lovingly fed four children about 21,900 nutritious meals. My chances to gather loved ones to celebrate her, as she did for our special occasions as we grew up. One day a year is so inadequate a thank-you, the only way I can think of to truly lavish upon Mom is to fill the house with flowers.

Today, the day after yesterday’s Mothers Day party, seeing so many vases around my house brings a smile to my face. I had put two little vases on the patio table where we ate appetizers. One vase of tulips was on the dining table where we ate dinner. More tulips graced the living room. 

The three large vases are now empty because I invited my sister and my mom to split two huge bouquets to take home and enjoy. Yesterday two of these vases had overflowed with every color of mum, carnation, and flowers I don’t know the names of (and forgot to photograph); the third vase held long-stemmed red roses brought by my niece for her mom and grandmother. The empty pink vase was the same vase my mother used to put a profusion of pink and white peonies in every spring when I was little. I can still see her standing in her kitchen to place each stem just so.