“Bloom where you’re planted,” they told her. And she did. She adapted and persevered, thrived and blossomed. She was a country girl with the greenest thumb, but she could sparkle with the best of them under the city lights. She grew herbs on a tiny terrace in Queens while listening to Johnny Cash. She took a tract house and made it her own, with purple paint in the bedroom and a vegetable garden in back. And there were always flowers wherever she roamed. She gave bouquets of kindness to everyone she met.
I miss you, Mommy. Rest in peace.
Written for the Carrot Ranch.
Reposted for the 13th anniversary of Mom’s death.
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