A choice made for me

My mom is from Durango, Colorado. Smack dab in the middle of purple mountain majesty. My grandma lived in that same house in the same town for decades. Her back porch always had flower pots of red geraniums here and there. It was shaded by an oak tree, whose huge branches reached up past the roof. The alpine air was cool, the soil was dark and damp, and the geraniums let off a very particular scent that to this day, when passing by the flowers on a rainy day, move me back to that porch.

I'm six years old, barefoot, sunburned, all skinny legs with bruises and scrapes, my shorts and T-shirt are covered in grass stains. My brother and I are sprawled face down on the porch, the bones in my knees hitting the hard wood. With one eye closed I peek through a hole in the boards, looking to see if there are bee nests under there. The screen door slams in a disordered rhythm: a creek, a whoosh of air as the door was pulled open, one faint crack when it was released, and a slam shut. Someone appeared, someone went inside, then reappeared. All the while my grandmother sitting on the rocking couch thing with a cigarette, chatting with my mom. The air is heavy with moisture, a sharp hint of rain. The clouds are huddling low on the horizon, making their way off the mountains. A gust of wind blows, I am surrounded by the perfume of geraniums.

Grandma died when I was a junior in college. She was sick. I flew out to New Mexico to meet my parents and we were going to drive up to see her, and, I think we all knew, say goodbye. My mom got the call when I was picking them up from the airport. We were on the 25 cutting through Albuquerque. My dad jumped out of the front seat when my mom let out a cry, unbuckling his seatbelt and throwing himself in the backseat to be next to her. I rarely see him move so fast. She got the news, we missed her.

A few years later and an apartment in Málaga. My parents and brother came over for Christmas to visit. They used some of the funds from my grandmother's estate to pay for the trip. Grandma traveled lots when she was younger, to Egypt, to Mexico, to Australia, to China; it fit that she had a hand in our trip. On my parent's last day we drove down the coast towards Nerja. It was January but it was perfectly sunny and not as cold. We stopped and ate fried boquerones and espetos at a chiringuito, bathing in the sun like lizards. When I think of that day it's all weak, golden sun.

"What do you want for Christmas, Claire?" my mom asked from the backseat. I was shotgun, directing my dad towards the city. I have everything I want, what do I need a Christmas present for?

Just then we passed a plant nursery. It was open, despite it being January.

"Pull over, I'd love some plants for my patio."

Walking throughthe aisles I couldn't choose. Hibiscus, jasmine, spindly ferns and orange trees. They were all pretty. I rounded another row and saw them, lined up and in full bloom. There was never really any other choice.

With the spring weather and sun, they're blooming like mad and I smell them every day.