An extraordinary hibiscus plant sits on my kitchen island
next to a Corion cutting board. On the other side, adjacent to the island, is
my granddaughter’s high chair. On the golden wall behind is a framed photo –
taken by Stephanie, of course – of a beloved tropical scene: a profusion of
yellow hibiscus flowers amid palm trees with the deep blue sea in the
background.
I had bought several beautifully full and flowering hibiscus
plants before, but once in my home, they withered and dropped their leaves. As
if in silent protest to be wrenched from their tropical home and dumped into
the colder Northwest, they wasted away and refused to bloom ever again.
I even attempted to grow frangipani trees. With excitement,
I carried tree twigs home from Hawaii, gently stowing them in my carry-ons. I planted
the sticks according to the perforated cellophane package instructions and
waited and waited for the unfolding of the fragrant essences. I became
overjoyed when a few feeble leaves appeared, but with growing dismay, watched
them shrivel. Then, the trunks collapsed, rotten to the core.
A year ago, a saucy vermillion hibiscus plant flirted with
me at Trader Joe’s. In a weak moment, I placed her in my shopping cart. Why not
try again, I thought to myself, even if it’s just to enjoy the blooms that are
already on the plant. I wanted that reminder of tropical paradise – in my home
– now!
And so I brought her home and soaked up the glory of the
bright red blossoms. The initial blooms dropped off. I held my breath. The
plant’s leaves remained intact – drooping a little as a reminder when I was
late with my watering.
Then, a few weeks ago, I espied a tiny bud on one of the
branches. I hardly dared to hope. “Look Ada, a new bud on the hibiscus plant,”
I exclaimed to my granddaughter perched in her high chair, spooning ice cream
in and around her mouth. (Grandma is a softy when it comes to treats.) Ada
poked her nose toward the bud (we sniff flowers all over the neighborhood on
our walks.) “Not yet,” I smiled.
I was fascinated as the bud grew day by day. And then, it
sprung open into a gorgeous four-inch spanned gift of the divine. The bloom lasted
hardly more than twenty-four hours – but oh, what enchantment! Each time I
spread butter or chopped or sliced, my tropical companion brought a glow to my
heart.
That particular branch of the hibiscus has been generating
bloom after bloom. Yesterday, I was startled to see the stunning beauty of yet
another flower as I turned from the fridge to set milk on the island. In your face, she announced to me in her
full glory. In my face, indeed, for I have been feeling sorry for myself.
I have no travel plans. I have no trips scheduled and
everyone around me is flying to exotic destinations: Hawaii, Mexico, San Diego.
I’ve even succumbed to sulking about it: I have nowhere to go; no one wants to
travel with me; woe is me!
But my hibiscus blossom, in my face, on my kitchen island,
reminds me of all the many travels I’ve enjoyed, and she points out that I have
a piece of tropical heaven right here, right now. Soak me up and revel in me, she urges. And my god, there are other
buds waiting in line to open up and open me up to that same lesson. In my face, indeed.
No comments:
Post a Comment