Mother always gave me paper whites.
Each December, she would
hand me a gift-wrapped pot with bulbs poking out of rocks. It didn’t look like
much. I would be depressed by the onset of winter, a time when horizon and
ground melded, the dark, drab sky perfectly morphing into the dark, drab
concrete; and when the frozen, drab slush would seep into my permeable, drab boots.
hand me a gift-wrapped pot with bulbs poking out of rocks. It didn’t look like
much. I would be depressed by the onset of winter, a time when horizon and
ground melded, the dark, drab sky perfectly morphing into the dark, drab
concrete; and when the frozen, drab slush would seep into my permeable, drab boots.
This was when I most needed color and nature. And my mom
knew it. I would set my paper whites in front of a window and carefully water
them. In no time, little white daffodil-like flowers would bloom, filling my
house with a sweet jasmine scent.
knew it. I would set my paper whites in front of a window and carefully water
them. In no time, little white daffodil-like flowers would bloom, filling my
house with a sweet jasmine scent.
The days of paper whites ended when I left to live in Israel
nine years ago. I moved into an
apartment with a rooftop just last August. Under the scorching Israeli summer
sun, the garden was nothing but parched earth and hardy weeds.
nine years ago. I moved into an
apartment with a rooftop just last August. Under the scorching Israeli summer
sun, the garden was nothing but parched earth and hardy weeds.
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My mom, who passed away in November, is gone. I sat shiva
for her in Toronto, flew back to Israel and returned feeling empty—until I went
up to my rooftop. There I was greeted by hundreds of paper whites glistening in
the sun.
for her in Toronto, flew back to Israel and returned feeling empty—until I went
up to my rooftop. There I was greeted by hundreds of paper whites glistening in
the sun.
While I was gone, the fall rains and cool nights awoke them, while the
sun encouraged them. And now, as I sit beside them, I take in their sweet scent
and remember.
sun encouraged them. And now, as I sit beside them, I take in their sweet scent
and remember.
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Those potted paper whites craning
for a speckle of Toronto light have been replaced by hundreds of plants shimmering outside
in full sunshine. Each morning, I watch the sun rise over the Shomron,
delineating mountain from sky blue. And then I take out my siddur and pray
beside these flowers.
for a speckle of Toronto light have been replaced by hundreds of plants shimmering outside
in full sunshine. Each morning, I watch the sun rise over the Shomron,
delineating mountain from sky blue. And then I take out my siddur and pray
beside these flowers.
I remember my mother with each sweet breath because she
is so much a part of this.
is so much a part of this.
Mother always gave me paper whites. And she still does.
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