Her Mother’s Jade

She gave us a million dollars, surely we can grant her this one thing?  Keep it alive, that’s all she asked.

Her mother, she says, was a saint.  This jade came through her, and through her mother, and her mother’s mother.  Jade is a special sort of plant, kind of like a Wandering Jew in that way, give it what it wants and it’s immediately invasive, take it out of its narrow comfort zone and it withers dramatically before dying.  Your negligence would be in the spotlight for months while you went on not noticing, or, not caring.

She was a saint, it is said.  She could knit through wails for twenty minutes before noticing a thing.  Once trance broken, “Oh, Oscar stop already” muffled huff, return to needles.  Oscar scoffs, and stops.

Saint is code word for Expert of Dissociation.  Give the lady another medal. She could read or knit or drown in TV while the seas parted around her, and remain oblivious.  She could minimize and whitewash every ‘love bite’ and ‘love pinch’ and smile, or shrug, or eye-roll her way through a dozen abusive slurs.  That’s what it means to be a saint.

Long-suffering Jades, pass it on, don’t forget, don’t neglect, and always, pass those seeds on.

 

 

Author: KenshoHomestead

Creatively working toward self-sufficiency on the land.

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