Zinnias

I don’t care for zinnias. They are much too bold and breezy; their raucous carefree hues belied by reliability. I would adore them if they had a fatal flaw, a stem too weak to carry their weight, like the dinner-pate peonies staked in my yard. No, zinnias bright colors are compromised only by a common daisy face and weedy stems wilted by fierce desert sun and wind and dust. They survive an arid wasteland, if watered daily during summer’s raging heat, and grow well from seed—and so they played a perpetual part in my mother’s garden. Always placed in the same position, year after year; set and corralled—as befitting ill-behaved perennial or progeny. Decide where the specimen goes and there it stays. Neat rows, alternating plastic colors, nothing random—everything planned, no surprises. A model of my mother and what she hoped for me.

Her penchant for routine is renowned—daily patterns set standards of regularity. Nine on a Saturday morning, every week till death intervened, would find her calling grandma, who waited by the phone. Shopping and Banking is Monday’s task; Laundry is Tuesday. Both bathrooms are given the once-over daily, no toothpaste smears or loose hair resides more than 24-hours in her basins. Thus too the stray bill, never a late payment or speeding ticket. All records are flawless; safe and steadfast are her keywords, routine her heart, her savior. She is never out of groceries the way that I am. I ring her at odd times, different days, not always from home, mostly from a moving vehicle. I am scattered while she is focused. I am random where she is regimented.

Arranging a visit is difficult; my mother’s frail body—abused by years of illness—can’t tolerate elevation of flight, the eighteen hour drive is hard on her circulation; my father can’t tolerate being trapped in a terminal or taking off his trophy belt decorations and pocket contents in security lines. They tend to travel here in winter or spring, when the weather is at its worst and irregular, when it’s hard to plan an outing, to break the cabin fever and monotony. They establish patterns while visiting, set schedules and tasks in order, they don’t allow for unanticipated discoveries. My mother reminds me that I transplanted myself, that if I were closer it would all be so much easier—better. So I go to them like a weedy thistle—springing up, eventually.