These sweet peas, picked from remnants still growing in my garden here in late September, are in memory of my dear maternal grandmother, who's no longer with us, and my own mother, who suffers from Alzheimer's. My grandmother and mother loved all things pink, and I was always a purple-lover, though as I get older my fondness for pink grows, too; after all, I am a grandmother myself.
In picking these flowers, sniffing deeply their fragrance, I am struck by the contrast of what are more typically
spring flowers still blooming during this autumnal equinox, equating this scene with my own renewed feelings of hope as this wheel of year turns toward darker times.
