Tulips for my mother.
‘And in the end, loves tastes like Tulips having rain tea in a coloured cup.’ Fathima Shamla.
I lost my mother six years ago, in April. At a time when I thought I had time to plan more time with her.
We lived on two different continents, at times a one hour difference. In winter, two. Sunday nights was the norm - the weekly catch up and sometimes I really had better things to do, or so I thought. Rather be out later with friends, end the week-end with sundowners or returning from the beach. When I think of it now, of the wasted time and how she must have felt, waiting, hoping I would call and share a few moments with her, let’s just say I will have to live with it.
That is how this messy world works. Everything in hindsight.
Dark days followed her passing. Months of awful practicalities and dealing. What I do find interesting is how life did take over and years dulled the pain, but of late and especially at Springtime, the longing returns, not in a negative way but in a the remembering of the good stuff. My mom taught me a lot of good stuff, but in Springtime it was her love for Tulips that brings us close.
The Embankment Gardens
London in April. The birdsong begins at four in the morning, but it is sweet and innocent and I am ready to rise, only the duvet promises warmth I cannot find with my feet on the carpet. Banished are the months of perpetual darkness until half the day is done; this is spurring on the sleepy woman, torn between the nestling and the endeavour of another day.
I have to, have to spend every possible moment outside. The rarity of natural brightness is fleeting here, you absolutely have to drink it in, gulp by gulp or I will regret this too. Outside, where I am in Notting Hill, the ballet backdrop scenes are set. White houses (some tired and begging for favours) pierced with pink and white magnolias, the big sister of Spring and then the daintiest of dilly, candy coloured blossoms that hang on tight when that icy wind wants to rip them from their branches. I don’t care about the garbage bags on the side walks, the graffiti near the tube, nothing can spoil the mood. And I know exactly where I want to go. To find more flowers.
There are nervous signs of normality - do you wear the mask on the tube or not. I do and am one of the last to do so. COVID seems a dream away. The tubes are packed again, especially on weekends and we are standing when no seats are available, yet many buildings stand empty and empty shops are relics of the pandemic. Nature isn’t bothered - her parks are busting with the smallest of green leaves, the grass grows unabated and the lakes laced with ducks and swans. I can hear the foreign accents, things are looking up, finally and yay!
Colour riot.
How do you not stare at these beauties. All are photographing, kneeling, standing, catching the best view. Instagram overload. Benches accommodate bankers on lunch break. Mother’s swopping tales of sleepless nights, rocking babies without paying much attention - so good to get out of the small apartment and vent a little with a friend about sore boobs, teething, rashes and rants. Lover’s steal time and the entire bench, stoking, kissing, reluctant to let go. Tourists chew sandwiches and check the guide books. And the homeless come here too. It’s free. Bed, office, sanctuary all in one. Tangled lives and tangled hair - does anyone care? The public ablutions and soup kitchen lies across the street so a community of homeless congregate here.
Homeless and hungry in a Dutch painting of tulips. We are all welcome to watch. My mother would most likely have sneered a little at the company. Put some tissues on the bench before sitting, cardigan draped across her shoulders. She never came to this park, to any park in London with me, but her enjoyment of the beds of tulips would have pleased her no end. She would most certainly have approved - and made sure no-one but me sat close, handbag held tightly on her lap - sweet soul.
Tulips at Ham House, Richmond
I wish I knew every variety, every name. I know Parrot Tulips and …tulips. The Parrot tulips are the frilly ones. Like most plants, the names are fabulous when you look past the ‘daisy’ or the ‘rose.’ Named after botanists, celebrities, explorers, artists or romantic notions and colour tones. “Queen of the Night’ , ‘Rembrandt’ and ‘Sweet love’ - this is something I need to explore.
For now, just sitting on the bench and drinking in the beauty. Missing my mother.
‘And in the end, loves tastes like Tulips having rain tea in a coloured cup.’ Fathima Shamla.