Top Heavy
Last spring, I planted some marigolds along the edge of my garden. Their little plastic tags promised they’d grow to a height of 32 inches and—despite my doubts—they did! Their yellow and orange blossoms were gorgeous but too heavy for their slender stems. So, one by one, each bright bloom toppled over and hung upside down.
It made me think about the dazzle and burden of beauty. It made me think about my beautiful mother. “You look like a movie star,” people said to her and it was true. Her lovely smile, her perfect features, her full figure.
Lois built her whole identity on her appearance and didn’t bother to look below the surface. It was enough to be beautiful, to attract admiration and attention and a handsome husband. But beauty by itself isn’t enough to build a meaningful life on.
I tried to love my mother but never felt close to her. She was pretty to look at but not very interesting to talk to, full of advice about lipstick but not about life. And as she got older, she was like the marigolds which were too heavy for their stems and toppled over.
She died at sixty-one, sad and lonely and still beautiful.
Karen Anderson is a writer who lives in Traverse City. You can hear her essays Sunday mornings on the radio. You can find all of her essays here.
