When I was around nine-years-old I went to work with my father and spent most of the day in the switchboard room. Later, my mother sent a pot of red geraniums to the ladies at the switchboard to say, “thank you.” They meant nothing to me.
When I lived on Belmont Court, a friend bought geraniums every spring—sometimes red, sometimes pink—and kept them on her front steps. They meant nothing to me, particularly.
Today, I have a small pot of red geraniums on my deck. They remind me of Mom and Chris. They mean so much to me.