I miss the huge geraniums of my childhood. The circular scallop-edged leaves ranged from solid green to green with bands of crimson. The peppery scent would never be included in a perfume, yet the smell sends me back to Minnesota.
Eye-popping red geraniums are my grandmother going to visit her mother’s grave in the rural cemetery on the Fourth of July. They are the lone mausoleum that carries whispers from my sister, “The gypsy queen is buried there.”
Warm pink geraniums are summer on the farm with chickens staring at the blossoms waiting to peck at any bugs that dare to show themselves. They are farm cats plopped into baby doll buggies yowling as they bump across the farmyard followed by a barking farm dog.
Glowing white geraniums are sweet watermelon juice running down my chin as my sister and I start a spitting contest with the seeds. They are the black and red box elder bugs that decorate the trees in the dappled sunshine. They are the easy laughter from my grandfather as the transistor radio hisses another run scored by the Twins.