How many years has it been since we trekked downtown on Mothers Day, with a few dollars in our hands, to buy the red geraniums? How much did we pay? Were they a dollar for each? Fifty cents?
How long has it been since the old, old man who lived in our town, who had a little greenhouse and raised red geraniums, came to mind? Was he really that old or just seemed so at the time?
How long ago was it that he handed us the clay pots that held the red geraniums in exchange for the dollars that paid for them? How many did we buy? More than one. Two or three? Maybe four?
How many years, days, hours has it been since we carried the red geraniums in their rough clay pots back across the highway that leads up the valley in one direction and to the Big Town in the other? How long since we followed the sidewalk that ran past the grade school proudly carrying home the potted red geraniums.
When years add upon years, remembrance becomes fuzzy, many details a blur. But vivid in memory from those long ago days are rough clay pots on Mothers Day and the scent of red geraniums.