Yesterday at my mom’s apartment, I drop by after buying a fresh bouquet of flowers for her at the Chico Saturday Farmers’ Market. I do this because I know that her last fresh flowers are from Mother’s Day — live lilies in a white plastic pot — are getting wilted and sad on the table near her window.
I get a vase down from the kitchen shelves and carefully arrange the bouquet. Mom is at the kitchen counter paying her bills. I take the vase over to the table and start to remove her lilies.
“No, no. Leave them there,” says Mom.
“But, mom, they’re tired and wilted and will be dead soon.”
“Now, now, you just leave them there. I’m watching them.”
“I’m waiting to see who goes first, them or me.”