Mother’s Day

Early Sunday morning I was in La Salle Flowers, a little family-owned shop, and one of the few storefronts in my neighborhood that still hints at how the city used to look and feel.

I inched toward the counter, fourth in a line of other last-minute sons and husbands. Behind me a toddler’s dad tried to give an ad hoc lesson that not all flowers are for picking. The shop is so tight, that even when he picked the little girl up, there were flowers within her reach no matter where he stood.

The guy working the counter, probably in his early twenties, stood out somehow. His La Salle Flowers shirt was oversized even on his burly frame. He seemed more invested than a typical summer-job college kid, but also not quite at home, like he belonged there but hadn’t fully embraced it. When helping customers, he seemed to gaze half at them, and half out the window behind them. As he rang me up, I was wondering whether he loved his job and couldn’t admit it, or hated his job but really needed it.

Then the older woman assembling bouquets at the back saw the stems I’d picked out, and kindly but firmly suggested that she might rearrange things, and maybe swap a few colors (she didn’t say why but the reason was obviously to improve on my efforts). I was happy for the help, and the guy stepped aside so she could gather up what he’d been working on.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said.

And suddenly his demeanor made sense. Maybe he’d worked there as a kid, and was just helping out on one of their biggest days of the year. Or maybe he’s full-time, but working for your mom is complicated. Either way, his words had all the history and weight of anyone who’s ever said them: thanks mom. And it was nice to see them working together on Mother’s Day.