Snow and Mimosa

They don’t even seem like flowers, more like the bright yellow pom-poms my mother used to sew along the hems of kitchen curtains in the 50s becoming 60s—yellow gingham ones perhaps, cheery, an emblem of a kind of chipper domesticity, the happy housewife in her bouffant going to town with the foot-pedal of her Singer sewing machine, whistling while she worked, tunes from the hit parade. Now the pom pom Mimosa is the symbol of Italian Woman’s Day, bold yellow on every “festa della donna” greeting card, twisted into tight cellophane bouquets and lavished on female frequenters of grocery stores and restaurants. You hold a Mimosa up under your chin the way I was taught as a child to hold a buttercup. The yellow glow the flower casts is indicative of something. Love, probably. I don’t remember.

Yesterday, taking the bus up Via Pellini, I thrilled at the sight of them: Mimosa trees in full bloom, the delicate branches literally bowing under the weight of a sudden explosion of puffy blooms, festooning in grape-like bunches, in ever-swelling tiers. Sogno d’oro/dreams of gold, Italians say for “sweet dreams” and I found myself thinking that I was indeed walking through golden dreams as I beheld the strange marvel that surely had not existed the day before. I take this route to school every day yet only today had the trees caught sudden flame and it seemed a miracle until I recognized why it seemed a miracle. Festa della Donna is March 8th and it’s still only January.

It would have been one thing to accept the blooming as yet another sign of Global Warming, but the odd thing was: I’d just that morning gotten over my belief in Global Warming and my fear. It was gloriously cold, a true January, with leaden gray skies and the menacing kind of fog that doesn’t wisp around in a dreamy way but simply, stubbornly hangs a kind of dismal pall all over everything. There was also precipitation—I say precipitation, because rain, sleet, hail, snow all seemed present at once and independently, a hoary icey-ness covering the cobbles, making me slip. I’d gotten so used to the mild winter, I no longer even thought of hats and gloves. Scarves, yes, because scarves are to Italians in any kind of winter weather what billed caps are to American men in sunshine. Italians are careful with their necks and twirl miles and miles of hand woven Pashamina around their necks indoors and out to stave off mal di gola (sore throat) and raffreddore (cold) and one would look nude navigating the streets without a scarf so I comply with that accessory, but hadn’t thought of gloves or hat and wished I had thought, given the sudden wonder of frigid weather. My feet in their ordinary loafers were wet and numb, my hands raw, my cheeks burning, my knees shook, teeth clattered. I thought perhaps the buses would not run as I stood by my stop for what seemed like hours. And then out of the mist, there appeared the angel of deliverance—Daniela on the way to her cellulite massage, swooping me up to carry me to my train.

How on earth could the bitter cold, the rain/sleet/hail/snow arrive on the same day the Mimosa burst into bloom? This phenomenon seemed to defy all the theorists who think they know what’s happening in our universe and can project the end of the world. I smirked, beholding the burning bushes that line my road. What a vision they were—so vivid against the backdrop of distant snowy Appenines, the yellow fuzz balls bold, bright heralds of mysteries arcane.

Fellow passengers also took note of how strange it was: Mimosa in January. What then will we do in March come time for La Festa di Donna? There won’t be any flowers to go along with all the greeting cards and yellow Mimosa cakes. No lapel pom poms, no bouquets, no discovering the yellow glow under her chin.

I think I am perfectly satisfied to see the Mimosa bloom in January. Come March I’d like something lustier than pom poms to commemorate the women I adore. Roses are cliché. How about the hibiscus…nothing shy or coy, chipper or domestic about the hibiscus, wildly splaying its petals, open to anything. Yes, I nominate the hibiscus for the new symbol of Women’s Day. Do I hear a second?