I'm the kind of person who skips to the conversation when reading a book.
Bobby and I were pulling out of my parents’ driveway when I saw them — beautiful little white flowers, both brave and humble.
Brave, because nobody else wants to come out in this weather.
Humble, because they keep their little heads bowed, in meekness. They have an unpretentiousness about them that is so sweet and becoming.
“Stop the car,” I said to Bobby.
He stopped and looked at me questioningly as I opened the car door. I was scrolling through my iPod trying to find the camera feature. I’ve wondered if he regrets getting me the iPod, since I do pull it out at the darnedest times, trying to capture the moment — when we’re on a walk, when we’re in church, when we’re at the dinner table, and now, while we’re pulling out of a driveway.
I just knew my mother would like to see her snowdrops. In fact, she would probably have stopped to pull the leaves away so they would look even prettier.
Later, at the nursing home, I pulled out the iPod to show her the picture.
“Look, Mom, it’s your snowdrops,” I said as I handed her the device.
She squinted up her eyes and looked at the screen. She tipped it, and the picture shifted its orientation. “What just happened?” she asked.
I stood behind her and held the iPod so she could see. “These are the snowdrops at the end of the driveway.” When she didn’t say anything, I went on, “I know it’s hard to see, but they’re coming up through the leaves. Can you see them?”
She nodded, but, with her Alzheimer’s, I’m never sure if she’s just agreeing or if she really understands.
“Can I see that?” my father asked.
I showed him the iPod picture too. He squinted up his eyes. I’m not sure he could see it either.
They hide, both in pictures and in real life.
But those who can see them are blessed by their simple beauty.