Is there a more charming common name for a flower than ‘forget-me-not’? And is there not a more perfect pairing to the name than these adorable blue blossoms? I’ve never had any specific memory or person that bound themselves to these little flowers. The only person responsible for planting forget-me-nots in the woodland garden of my childhood was me. In some sense, the forget-me-not reminds me of the child I once was – the little boy who sprinkled a packet of seeds along a stone-laden path, then waited and watched as their tiny, slightly furry leaves expanded and sent buds into a penumbra above their miniature forest.
The flowers – so dainty and seemingly delicate – were like little explosions of blue bliss with hearts of golden stars, white points of light emanating from the center. No matter how strong the winds, and there are always strong winds every few days at this time of the year, these little flowers stay true – unshakable until the very last moment before they let their petals fall.
On our recent visit to Ogunquit, we came upon an entrancing patch of these flowers as we walked from the opening of the Marginal Way to dinner. We passed the hotel where my parents used to stay, and a thought of Dad tied itself to these flowers. Maybe the forget-me-not is for anyone who deserves not to be forgotten.
At the hair salon the other night, a Filipino woman cut my hair. She’d done so once before, and I thought her accent was familiar. She asked about my last name this time, and I confirmed that I was Filipino too – Dad’s side. She talked about her kids visiting the Philippines, and the foods she made – pancit and adobo and lumpia – and I told her I made those, as well as ensaymada, which impressed her. She said her husband hadn’t taught her kids Tagalog, and I told her the scant few phrases I knew. She asked if I lived nearby and if I had a family. I said I lived with my husband, and my Mom and brother and niece and nephews were in Amsterdam. This sort of small-talk, so insignificant and so meaningful, if only to me, to this moment in my life, brought my Dad back in such an easy and everyday kind of way, even as I put him in the past tense. It was important for me to say that to this hairdresser, to let her know he left us last summer.
And then to feel him still with me – in an accent, in a recipe, in a story from halfway around the world.
