Iris and dicentra spectabilis from the apartment driveway.  Tulips from my community plot.

It was a cold, soaking rain for Mother’s Day, but I doubt that stopped anyone from taking Mom on her annual pilgrimage to the Arboretum, to stroll the acres of pink and white crabapples or breath deeply among the long, fragrant rows of lilacs.  I did not venture there myself, although I very much need to visit the lilacs soon.

Instead of shoveling soggy wood chips with my friend onto the community garden paths, we took the less heroic route of kaffeeklatsch in the quiet morning hours of a Mother’s Day with nothing to do.  We agreed that the black-ice road through Covid and cultural catastrophe is crowded with friends, all just as shocked as we are by the slide and crash of our own unforeseen hazards.  And the great challenge seems to be allowing the inevitable joys and contentments to arise in parallel to the heart-stopping hairpin curves.

A dilemma that would feel familiar to so many women.  Mothers who wake up dreaming how they can make things better, make things alright for their children, no matter how icy dark the night.