Not long ago my son began picking flowers. Well, gripping and ripping them low on the stems is more like it. He gets hold of the base of a branch of vanhoutte spirea in my father's back yard, and yanks intently on the shrub, the tiny yellow, orange and red flowerettes snowing down around him as he labors to pick just one. He looks puzzled.
Today I am reminded of his determination when I hear him approaching me "Mommy? I picked these for you." His little hand grasps tightly around a small bouquet of red-orange vanhouette, three stems maybe, with a few leaves half falling off. I kneel to acknowledge him, looking him square in the face and smile. "Here Mommy." He nubs the stems into my hand. They are warm from his perspiring grasp. My heart is heavy. He smiles and so do I.
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