Each spring, our table is dressed with supple, sensual bouquets of calla lilies. They were planted here well before our arrival by a fool, as I’m reminded once a year when thinking, “Oh that’s right, we have a calla lily plant.”
Who but a fool thought the ideal location to plant Nature’s most august and majestic flower was nowhere in the yard proper, readily beheld, but in a dead-end corner of sideyard, invisible to everyone but our least deserving neighbors. Each May, one white wondrous bloom licks its face over a living room sill, sending me reeling to its forgotten corner, finding armloads of leaves and blossoms already collapsed with sunstretched exhaustion upon the earth. There remains, ever, enough for an arrangement or three to treasure.
I could move it, somewhere more obvious, more accessible. But I like the forgetting, the re-remembering at the free gifts all around, if only noticed.