Sunday, you may have noticed, is May 1. It means different things to different people, mind; but to me, it shall always mean flowers.
It began, of course, in childhood (as traditions so often do). I still recall the scent of Elmer’s glue as we made paper May baskets. Inevitably, that pasty white substance would ooze from the tabs, onto our fingers. It was tricky; but by George, we’d get it done. And when we did, we’d fill those baskets with pansies, carefully place them on a doorstep, knock, and run as fast as our stick legs could carry us. Of course once out of sight, we always tried to peek–to see the look of delight on the face of a loved one.
And so it continues . . .
Of course, pansies have been replaced with seeds or flower packs; the stick legs are definitely gone; and I no longer run. But the love remains.
So in case I do not make it to your front step, here’s a bouquet of flowers just for you. They come with a wish for unexpected joy–for sunshine and laughter; dancing and singing; and hope for a brighter tomorrow.