Violets always remind me of my mother. She would pick them and place them in a tiny vase on the table next to my bed when I was coming to visit. It was a simple act of love.

My mother was a kind, gentle and gracious woman. She and my dad raised six children – I was the last and the only girl. She was hard working and spent many hours washing clothes and cooking meals, ironing and darning. When I was young she spent two days every week baking to keep the biscuit tins full for her husband and children.

She spent her last years in a rest home and finally entered the hospital wing of the rest home after strokes and dementia robbed her of her mobility and much of her mind. But in her final years, after she’d been stripped of so much, she was still a kind and gentle woman.

I watched her change – which caused me to change too. She had been the parent and I the child, and then all of a sudden our roles reversed.

My mother was one of the rest home carers’ favourite residents. She never complained, she was quiet and cheerful, compliant and she smiled often, even if she didn’t talk much. She became their friend and they appreciated how easy it was to be with her. Not so for many who came to visit her – as time went by she become quiet and somewhat non-communicative, and as such, her visitors had to make all the conversation themselves. Their numbers dwindled but I don’t think she minded. She just didn’t have anything to say – until she did (which wasn’t often). I used to tell her about what was happening in my world; I’d tell her what different family members were doing, tell her stories about people she’d known, or would discuss what was happening in the world – not much of a discussion, more a soliloquy. I used to sit with her and hold her hand, and if I felt chatty I chatted to her. If I didn’t feel like talking, we simply sat together and stared out the window and watched cars drive by or watch the clouds change, watch planes about to land or those who’d just taken off. Sometimes we just watched a little television.

I became comfortable with her silences because sometimes I was silent too. I was happy just to sit with her.  I believe she appreciated my presence, and I like to think that she knew that she didn’t have to speak unless she wanted to. I felt that there was a ‘comfortableness’ in our being together in her later years, and I’ll always be grateful for that.

Towards the end she didn’t recognise me. It wasn’t her fault and I wasn’t offended, just sad. But I visited anyway. I didn’t stay long – she became less comfortable with me – she didn’t know me, so it made sense really.

My mother passed away three years ago last week. The violets in my garden are a tribute to her and remind me of her kindness and her gentleness; a hardworking woman and her simple acts of love.

14 thoughts on “Violets

  1. So touching – an beautifully written. Your homage to your angel mother must surely have put a smile on her face in heaven.
    (Madelyn Griffith-Haynie – ADDandSoMuchMore dot com)
    – ADD Coach Training Field founder; ADD Coaching co-founder –
    “It takes a village to transform a world!”

    Liked by 1 person

  2. A beautiful tribute. I am so sorry that she didn’t know you near the end, but I’m sure that she felt your kindness, caring and just being present for her. 3 years is not long and it must still feeel quite raw for you. It is 30 years since I lost my dad and I still miss him every day. 💜

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    1. Thank you for your kind words. It was hard when she didn’t recognise me but I’m hoping that at some point I’ll be able to encourage others in a similar position. I do miss her but writing is a such a therapeutic way to keep her memory alive and the violets are also a lovely reminder

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      1. Yes, writng helps. I wrote a blog post and and a few poems about my dad for Father’s Day this year that were well-received, the younger members of the family appreciated the little bits of information they hadn’t known before and also the photos of when he was young.

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  3. Such a touching story – a tribute to your mother, and to you in your acceptance of her silences. Amazing how flowers, and their fragrance, can hold so much memory. In the woods behind my house we also had violets. My sister and I would pick as many as our hands could hold and bring them back to our mom. She would combine them and put them is a jelly jar glass .Part of my memory is that one or two violets had very little fragrance to them…but in a great bunch, they were delicate and sweet…and of course always take me back to the kitchen table where she placed them. My mom had a hard life…and a hard marriage and things picking violets for her was my way of giving her some sweetness. Thanks so much for sharing your post and your story of your mom! Jo

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