Thursday, July 11, 2013
for Lola Nikolasa, my father’s mother
Every day she offers me a red hibiscus. Each one perfect and set in the palm of her thick brown hand. Every day I accept the blossom and place it on my altar.
Since the dream, I have planted four red hibiscus plants in front of my yellow casita. And I wonder why she has given them to me. I step out the front door each morning to see which blossom has opened up. One red hibiscus a day. They take turns. The bloom pops red against the dark soil, holds its face up to the rain, drinks. Shines when the sun is out. Lasts one day long. At night, she draws her petals in, folds upon herself, dies. But the next morning, there is always another blossom.
I’m still learning about this hearty red flower that insists on opening up every single day, no matter the consequences, no matter the fate. I am figuring out how to enjoy that blossom, even if its only for a day. I am practicing how to let go. To understand that no matter what, my lola is standing by, with another hot flower in her fat hands.