Gardenias in the Morning
The kind of legacy that fits in a sandwich bag.
She’ll hand a friend a flower
in a Ziploc bag like it’s a diamond.
No note. No reason.
Just: I thought of you.
Every spring,
the house smells like gardenias.
Floating gardenias.
Always has.
As far back as I can remember—
through every season of her life—
around this time of year,
my mom’s up extra early,
breaking off the blooms by hand,
because someone will be on her heart
to share them with.
She floats them in vases:
by the kitchen sink,
on the table,
on someone’s desk.
She never said it would matter to me someday.
But it does.
I hope I bring beauty into the world
in the same small, thoughtful ways—
because it matters
to let people know
they’ve been seen.
Now I’m the one
picking gardenias in the morning.
Sharing them.
Blessing people.
And when I catch myself doing it—
I realize:
Oh. I’m doing what she did.
Maybe I’ll keep doing it
after she’s gone.
Or maybe I’m doing it
because one day she won’t be.
It’s about witnessing
a life of gentle, intentional beauty—
and quietly realizing
that’s part of me.
When you realize
what you inherited isn’t a thing.
It’s a way of being.