For six Saturdays, my neighbor ignored one simple request about something my late mother had left behind. On the sixth, she was waiting for me, and what she said finally revealed why my wishes had mattered so little.
“I was actually hoping I’d catch you,” Danielle said. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
I stopped several feet from her luxury SUV.
Soap was already flowing over the curb and spreading toward my hydrangeas.
“Then turn off the water first.”
Her smile faded.
She glanced at the hose.
“I already did.”
“The water is still running down the street.”
Danielle looked at the white foam gathering near the first plant, then back at me.
“Marianne, this is actually what I wanted to discuss.”
I folded my arms.
“Go ahead.”
We had been doing this for six Saturdays.
My mother had planted those hydrangeas along my front walk the summer before she got sick.
She’d spent an entire afternoon choosing where each one should go.
“Not too close together,” she’d told me. “Give them room to become what they’re going to become.”
At the time, I’d laughed.
Mom could make planting flowers sound like raising children.
She’d been gone for two years.
