Every Spring we took violets to Ellie in a cracked white creamer. She lived in an "old people's home" and was scarcely taller than my child stature. Her room had a radiator that billowed heat and Mother fanned and fanned. The purple flowers came from the edges of the wide open fields behind our house. But Ellie's world was small. And so that she didn't glimpse it all at once, she backed down the stairs, clutching the rail tightly. Good manners required only darting glances but we wanted to gape.
The floors gleamed with polish and sunlight. We quieted our steps and walked gently down the halls, hoping to see the lady with the chin stuck to her neck, and the one who was always needing to "fetch the cows" and the one who pushed a chair before her.
Our limbs were strong and whole. Our faces tanned. Our hearts curious. We were violets that heralded spring; they were the cracked pitcher. We needed each other.
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