Two Windowsills: A December Tradition with Mom

For many years, I went home in December to celebrate my mom’s birthday. Somewhere along the way, a small tradition took hold. We started an amaryllis bulb together so it would bloom during the Christmas season. At first, we used the clear glass bulb vases. They were pretty, but they turned out to be more trouble than they were worth. They were hard to keep clean, hard to manage the water, and not very forgiving once the bulb was finished. Before long, we switched to planting them in dirt instead. It was simpler. It worked better. And the flowers were just as beautiful. What mattered most wasn’t how we grew them. It was that we were starting the bulbs together, planting the same thing, and watching it bloom in two separate homes, thousands of miles apart, sharing the bloom and anticipation of waiting for it to open.  

Mom would send me a photo when hers opened, and I would send her a picture of mine. Sometimes the timing surprised us. Some years the bloom came right in the middle of Christmas week. Other years, it waited. And there was something especially meaningful about those late blooms, opening quietly after Christmas, when the decorations were coming down, the house was finally calm again, and winter had truly settled in. A bright, living flower in the middle of an ordinary January day always felt like a small gift we didn’t know we were still waiting for.

After mom was gone, I realized how much that small ritual had meant to me. So I kept it. Now, each December, I pass the tradition along to people who are special to me. I give an amaryllis bulb as a quiet, simple gift, something living, something slow, something that will bloom beautifully, and something that doesn’t need much except a little light and a little patience. Sometimes I receive a photo when it blooms, and when I do, it is very special. It brings me right back to those Decembers with my mom. two pots on two windowsills, miles apart. (This years pictures are from Sandra, Elizabeth and Maria) This is one of the ways I carry our traditions forward. Not because I need help remembering my mom, I never will. But because, in the middle of winter, and long after the holiday bustle has passed, one quiet bloom still knows how to remind me where it began.