Home Diary

I call this flower blossom Kamala. It is not what it is called. It is named after an old friend who gave it to me. Long ago we both had little children only ages four and five. We would go to her house and talk about mothering, making, gardening, food, cooking, social justice, building, alternative schools, community building and friendship. She would come to my house too. We made things when she came over here. We would go on nature walks and explore the local area and find out of the way places to bring our children. We had so much fun. We had so many adventures.

One day Kamala brought me this plant. It is bright yellow just like her bright smile. I have always had it growing here for decades now. It fills with bright yellow pompoms every early summer time and blooms up until even now. A frost is coming tonight and most likely the world will look different in the morning. Life is like that. Things look one way one moment - different the next. One day Kamala had to go away. She went to live in India where her mother was from.

The tale I tell is filled with great stories. But, one day Kamala came back here and lived in the house she herself grew up in. She had lost here young daughter during that time she was away - Anika was her name. When we met up again our conversation was just as it had always been. Filled with so much curiosity and learning and love and pain. Kamala died a few years ago now. I had always thought we would grow to be old ladies together and sit and remember all of our stories in our lives. We would drink tea and just sit quietly - not really needing to say anything. We’d listen to the birds. We would marvel at the world. Our hearts would break together over the hurt that can consume us. I miss her very much. I still have my Kamala flowers.