It's spring in England, and my mother visits,
like urgent rain--where squandered things
find great reception. Electronic billboards!
Gargoyles in Oxford! Museums are free!
Hunger satisfies easy when you're eager.
Until one day at the grocery checkout she sees
daffodils--papery, plastic-wrapped, "solitary"
not a "never-ending line," "dancing," or "gay."
And Amma--at least a third-generation learner
her outstretched words rebound as if swindled:
"This? This is what he made such a fuss about?"
In her contempt, I hear comparisons--to the
languor of unkempt jasmine, lotus, plumeria...
the warm, unlocked softnesses of oleanders,
parijaths, ixoras... In her derision there hides
history's list of pain, the sharp bite of the ruler
when she couldn't say "jocund" right (at least).
And Babu: fish and chips were disappointing too.
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I first wrote about Amma's reaction here--so many years ago.
Picture is from Daffodil Hill at the Radiology Gardens earlier this week; they seem to have been bigger this time last year?