“Here Mom, here’s your pot. Happy Mother’s Day,”
“Oh just what I always wanted - my own stash,” I said ignoring the clay pot that was nestled between Jonathan’s feet on the foot pedals of his wheelchair.
He laughed “Maybe I should’a planted some weed in it for you Ma. Ha! ”Pot in a pot – just for Mom.”
“Hey, that might catch on, if you don’t get arrested,” I said.
“It’d be worth the risk, just to see you get ‘potted’.”
It was two days before Mother;s Day – a Friday. Jonathan, an art student at nearby Dowling College had spent a good part of the semester studying primitive art. Any art project was especially difficult for him, due to the fact that he possessed little upper body strength.The professors rigged many ingenious devices in the classroom to facilitate his creations, which usually turned out a little lopsided and in this case a bit ugly.
But, I scooped the heavy gift up and found a place of honor for it on our hearth, where it sat for over a year collecting snack wrappers, bent paper clips and assorted junk – until the following Spring, when Jonathan was taken away from us.
Suddenly the pot took on a deeper and beautiful meaning. I realized that this lovely creation was a son’s last Mother’s day gift to his Mom.
- to be continued