I am deep in work when my daughter rushes in to tell me that the first zinnia of the year has finally bloomed. Oh, what an up and down we’ve had with zinnias this year. They are our family flowers, along with jasmines and my husband’s roses. Our zinnias have a mind of their own. They seldom bloom where we sow their seeds in the flower beds. In months past, they’ve taken to blooming just outside my double panel windows, by the clothes line, and the ultimate – right in the drain by the kitchen, watered by rain and everything that traverses our drains.
The zinnias are a poignant reminder of a time we took for granted a little. A time when we thought happiness and children born were here to stay and to see us off one day when we were old.
Today, when they bloom, and I watch them sway stiffly in the warm birdsong breezes, these colorful pretties remind me of a Life Book closed on earth here but now blooming across the sandbar. There is sadness. But there is hope too. Hope that comes from the life lost to us that now thrives in a world beyond us yet close by. The hope
that is now a Lamp to our feet.
We’ve sowed the zinnias in his resting place, amidst the wild grasses, jungle flowers and other sleeping souls. With the deluge of the past week, I hope the zinnias have birthed, so that from now on, purple pink orange yellow white magenta pretties will cuddle him and all the others all year through, till the end of time.