Nancy Hepner Goodman

Violets would grow randomly in our yard, and my mother and I would pick them to arrange and give away.   Small porcelain vases held the violets, purple ribbons wrapped around their stems.  I loved this delicate flower; the smell, the lavender against the emerald lawn. 

As a child, I would lay down in the grass, talking to each violet, so purple and petite.  One day my mother heard me.  Caught during this tender moment, she laughed, my face burned. I tried to keep my feelings hidden after that.  

I spotted one of these “violet vases” cleaning out my mother’s kitchen eight years ago, dusty, turned on its side behind a huge tub of flour.  We only had a week to empty out her house,  boxes lined up in the garage for the Salvation Army pickup.   My mother wanted to stay in her home, but Alzheimer’s changed everything.

Recently I found a one liner from Mark Twain regarding violets. 

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”

-Mark Twain

My “violet vase” is nestled between the rosemary and basil in the spice cabinet, and our neighbor’s yard is filled with violets. On walks, I cross the street to get a closer look.  There you are, I say, acknowledging their presence with a smile.  Regarded as a weed that can overtake a yard, I applaud the violets; their sweet beauty, and consider the freedom and resilience in forgiveness.