Read the latest from K-B:
Lilies of the ValleyBy Kit-Bacon Gressitt
My mother planted lilies of the valley along her garden’s edge. It was one of her rare mundanities, and the memory has remained with me. One early autumn day, wearing orange clamdiggers, matching gloves, and shoulder-banging earrings, she carried a bag of bulbs, a spade, and a small braided rug to the garden.
She rolled out the rug to kneel on, to protect her knees from the damp earth. She had shattered them both in an accident years before I was born. A truck, oblivious to the winter’s effect on the winding country road, skated around a bend and over the top of my parents' little car. I’ve imagined her lying there, bright red blood sketching her outline in the sterile snow ...