Today, I dug up divisions of my mom's hostas of every variety and bundled them into our car. I was drenched with sweat and the rain that shook from trees and plants as I worked. Back in Champaign, while Walker unloaded the car with more objects from my mom's house, I started weeding, raking out the side gardens, and digging holes. I'll harvest more on our next visit for the other side of the house.
My mom would love that a piece of her was at our home.
I love the hostas. I love the shades of green against our black and white house. I love my memories of my parents collecting varieties. I love looking at them and seeing our Cedar Tree house, our Third Street house, our Park Avenue house, my mom's Sleepy Hollow house. Someone told me some of the varieties are from my great-grandparents building in Chicago. Is is true? I don't know if I'll ever know, but my sappy sentimental heart loves me all the same.
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