by Sr Nunother
When I think of fall, I think of mums — robust orange, red, and yellow — profuse and sturdy, taking a last floral stand before winter prevails. They evoke memories of my father, who tended his flower gardens with infinite patience. He wasn’t a perfect man, but he was a perfect gardener, coaxing beauty from the rich Pennsylvania soil that surrounded our home. Two multi-colored strip gardens of mums bordered our yard and starred in their own autumn display. I was proud of my father’s workmanship and found in it love he was sometimes unable to express. I didn’t receive his gardening gift. But I did receive, either through inheritance or observation, his love for beauty and respect for its presence in our world.