The weekend is over and it's Sunday night.
My sisters and I have hired a lovely Mexican gal to live in with my 97 year old mom during the week and she takes weekends off at which time we take turns hosting Luza from Friday to Sunday. Now that she's 97 it's getting more complicated to pack her up and take her for a weekend, but still she looks forward to the mini-vacations spent with each of our families.
Luza has been with us since Friday afternoon and she's ready to get back to her regular routine. We are both happy to be returning to the rhythm of our lives.
As we arrive at her little home, we are greeted by a riot of reds and pinks and whites. Her "Abuela Garden."
Each rose bush was a gift from a different grandchild. As we slowly make our way up to the front door, she names each one and talks about them.
"Albertico's is my favorite. It only has a few petals but they're perfect."
"Isn't Adam's beautiful? It's called El Toro. Look how tight and round the petals are. I think it's my favorite."
"Lucy's is the only white one. I love how it climbs high and blooms above the others."
"Rafa's in the American Beauty. I love how each flower is identical."
"Amy's is the two-tone one because she's the Gemini. Isn't it beautiful?"
And so she goes on about each rosebush and each grandchild in turn. Each rosebush/grandchild she proclaims to be beautiful. Perfect. Her favorite. She pays tribute to each one of them as she walks by and names them by name.
She names their names and proclaims how much she loves them. The roses? Or the grandchildren? Sometimes that line is blurred. But she repeats this litany every time I take her home. Every. Single. Time.
It's fitting, I think.
The roses were meant to pay tribute to her. It obviously goes both ways.