Mother's Day was a lovely day. Fabulous Crab Cake Benedict at my new favorite restaurant, as the guest of my beautiful older daughter. Phone calls and good wishes via text added to the delicious start of the day. Not one problem with the beginning. It's the end of Mother's Day that's still got me cranked.
My mother died in 1966. A long time ago. So long, it was easier to give the date than do the math. About ten years after she died, a brother of mine sent me several white parrot tulip bulbs with an order to plant them in the beautiful church cemetery where her ashes are buried. [This same brother also starting painting my hallway at midnight once, so he tends to live his life in overdrive and drag everybody along with him.]
Meanwhile, the cemetery is so pretty you wouldn't know it was a graveyard except for the brass plaques on the stone walls, most of which are hidden by an epic amount of euonymous. I went there to do as I was told, only to discover there were already some pretty flowers blooming in the spot where we buried my mother's robin's egg blue china urn.
So I planted the tulips outside my back door along the driveway. The very next Mother's Day I had so many gorgeous white blooms, I was glad I couldn't plant them in the cemetery. For the first few years they grew and multiplied undisturbed, a lovely bouquet each spring to remind me of the person I missed most in my life. But I should have known the critters would take a liking to them also. Squirrels or rabbits finally got to them one year, because suddenly one spring there was only one plant left. With just a few blooms. The daffodils I'd planted in the backyard were gone too. Everything just vanished. Over time the remaining tulip blooms have increased and this year there were so many I even thought about splitting up the bulbs.
That is, until the end of an otherwise wonderful Mother's Day. For some reason, between the hours of 5 and 7 PM, while I was inside doing something else, a little gremlin plucked all the tops off the impending blooms. Quite neatly, too. All but one, which was so small I think the little s**t just missed it. Then whoever did the dastardly deed laid the buds out carefully on the driveway in a neat, straight row, after first tearing the petals apart. Is there a metaphor for squashing the kid like a bug? That's a simile. Good enough. All the anticipation I had saved up waiting to see what those beautiful white fleurs would look like this year was crushed to dust in a moment by some curious kid, who obviously doesn't have parents.
Normally I'm one of those people who rarely gets outwardly angry about something I cannot fix. I can even be understanding from time to time. Accidents do happen. Plus there's plenty of other things just waiting to piss me off. But, despite my outward zen, I have been known to seethe inside. Which I guarantee is still taking place 48 hours later. I can't believe some twit had the nerve to twank the flowers that were planted to remember my mother on Mother's Day.
So when I say to the unnamed, prepubescent perpetrator, seriously, do not mess with Mrs. Linklater's tulip bulb karma, you undisciplined little turd...he or she should be afraid. Very afraid.