Words + Images

If I were to write about petunias I would be writing about my mother. She grew them in these narrow wooden raised beds my father made for her. It was easy for us to go out near dusk and pick the spent blooms. I think it was a pleasant activity for her. So each time I walk past this container and the others in the yard, I stoop to look for blossoms to pick and I think of her with a smile.