That morning, she placed all six boxes along the deck railing.
Blue boxes.
Bright red flowers.
Blue lake behind them.
It looked beautiful.
“Mom, they’re gorgeous.”
She beamed.
Then Susan came outside.
White linen cover-up.
Large sunglasses.
Iced tea.
She walked straight to her lounger.
Sat down.
Stretched out.
Then she noticed the flowers.
She frowned.
Lowered her sunglasses.
“Oh. No.”
My mother was standing in the doorway holding a tray of blueberry muffins.
Susan pointed toward the railing.
“These are all wrong here.”
Mom stopped.
“I’m lying right here,” Susan said. “They block my whole view of the lake. I can’t see anything. Don’t do that again.”
Don’t do that again.
In my mother’s house.
About my mother’s flowers.
From my mother’s chair.
With my mother’s breakfast sitting in front of her.
I stood there holding my coffee, unable to believe what I was hearing.
Mom said,
“Oh. I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”
Then she set the muffin tray down.
And moved the flowers.
All six.
One by one.
Heavy wooden boxes filled with soil.
She carried them to the far corner of the deck.
Behind the grill.
