The Last of the Morningside Mothers
Abstract
Determined she should have another spring we plotted early: yellow roses in January, red camellias for Valentine's. Soon after, daffodils bloomed. We banked them like altar flowers. Pink hyacinths fed her when she no longer wanted biscuits. And her stereo sang with the lilt of Irish tenors, with Meet Me in Saint Louis, and Mozart. Then a miracle: April changed places with March. Dogwood stretched its blooms to her window. Azaleas popped fuchsia and red. Armfuls we carried in, leaving the...