Every year I’m surprised by how much I miss my parents on this particular holiday more than any other. Surprised, I suppose, because I’m not prone to this emotion generally, but on a sunny Easter day I miss driving to their house in a slightly warmer part of the province where the forsythia are often in bloom while snow lingers in the shady bits of my own yard. I miss sitting on their patio, listening to stories about their life long before I knew them and how they’d correct each other, argue, decide the other might be right after all.
I miss walking on the beach with them on this first spring weekend and my mother finding wild rosebushes and making a note to come back in the fall to pick the hips for tea. Just for a day, I miss the smell of her kitchen with the windows wide open.
Matilda Magtree 
Now the tears run down my face . You are a great daughter . Memories how sweet the moment .
That’s beautiful!
Sent from my iPhone
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Forsythia will one day be a word that invokes my mother. It came up in our Easter conversation last weekend, and she still mispronounces it, catches herself, asks, as always, “Is it for-SITH-ia or for-SIGH-thia?” and when I say “for-SITH-ia” she says, “Well, I call it for-SIGH-thia, and I always will!”
Thank you for this beautiful, ordinary, everyday memory of your parents, and its reminder that it’s the ordinary, everyday things that hold our world’s beauty.
I hope this link works. http://writing.upenn.edu/library/Solt-Mary-Ellen_Forsythia.html
Send it to your mum. (:
That’s wonderful! I will.