New Hampshire summer sunlight dapples down through the maple tree outside my door, calling me to come.  Our nesting woodpecker chimes her repeated note, but the full-leafed rustle of breezy forest is the only other sound.  Perfect stillness.

Delicate pink Cosmos shimmer in the morning air where my Mama planted a flower bed outside my window for my birthday.  Ruffled petals surround a center of fuzzy yellow.  Some of the stems droop over with the weight of the blossom, and some stand tall with their pointy leaves at attention.  I gather a tiny bouquet for Grandma’s baby vase, tucking in a bit of lacy fern.

For as long as I can remember, Mama has welcomed us home with Cosmos in the summer.  A woman of few words but deep and rich thoughts, she is an intriguing mystery none of us will ever completely solve.  She leaves clues to her innermost self with small but deliberate actions.   When you arrive at her Vermont home, meticulous gardens greet you,  and on the front door is a thin flower basket filled with a fresh welcome gift.  No matter the mix, it always includes Cosmos, the smiling harbingers of our New England summers.  Throughout the house similar offerings surprise you in every room.  A tiny vase is tucked in the corner of the bathroom counter, your bureau holds another arrangement, and there is even a miniature window box in the center of the kitchen window near where we sit to sip tea.  I always feel like Mama’s flowers are her arms drawing me into an embrace in her mind, tender and full of love.

Today I started my day with a Cosmo.