The older I get, the more particular flowers trigger memories. There are flowers I loved as a little girl. Their scents and shapes remind me how I reveled in their existence as much as my own. There are flowers that grew at my grandparents’ houses. And my great-grandparents’ houses. And there are flowers that I will remember when I’m old. Those my mother grew, or I grew myself or shared with my children. The flowers will always return and the memories are ours to keep: it’s just that moment of recognition – putting it all together – that we so often miss.