Begonia
The begonia on my porch is showing her true colors this week. As each tiny bead of a bud pops itself open; it uncurls into a tiny pale pink bundle like a baby girls’s soft crochetted bootie found in the cradle’s end––a tiny soft wad. Then the sun beams on it and it unfolds and becomes a whirly swirl of deep pinkness. The center is splashed with white and the stamens support pollen heads of gold.
My younger brother used to choose a flower every morning to pin to his shirtfront or pull through his buttonhole. He hoped to garner smiles and start conversations. He loved to meet new people and chat with them. He hated television which he felt robbed people of the pleasures of friendship. He longed for the days when folks sat out on their porches and greeted passersby––neighbor, friend, or stranger with a wave, a bit of talk, a “Good day”, or a tip of the hat.
I dare say one of my begonia blooms would have made him happy. His buttonhole flower habit helped him remember that life was good and that he should enjoy every hour and every day. It reminded him to be friendly wherever he went. We could all use a vase of buds or a blooming plant around to remind us that friendliness, like my begonia, is bright with promise.
A storm cellar is dark and cool inside and damp and musty, but it is a welcoming place during a tornado or during a storm that might gender one. When the sky turns a ghostly sick greenish-yellow, no matter how dark and close a cellar is, it is a good place to ride out the tempest.
