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I'm turning into my mother.

My mom used to take pictures of her garden.

I remember one in particular. At first glance, the photo appears to be of her neighbor's yellow siding and downspout.

But no, they're actually part of the background.

In front of the siding is a silver chain-link fence. In front of the fence is a mishmash of honeysuckle, irises, and black-eyed Susans. Over to the side is coreopsis, leading into bleeding hearts and lilies of the valley.

To the untrained eye, it appears to be a mini-jungle. My dad got in big trouble once for saying her garden looked like the "j" word.

She didn't believe in allowing space so her flowers would have room to grow. The plants multiplied into a jumble of perennials with a few annuals planted along the edges.

Mom also photographed the flowers she'd cut from her garden after she'd placed them in vases.

Her arrangement skills were basic. She snipped the flowers all the same length and jammed them into her latest garage sale vase.

My mom took the pictures with her Canon SureShot, developed them, and lovingly placed the 3” x 5” glossies into albums.

They are the most boring photos imaginable.

I thought she was off her rocker.

Fast forward thirty years.

Today, these albums sit in Sterilite bins in my basement. I've moved them to three different houses now.

You must know where this is going.

See the above photo of my flowers in a vase. I took it in portrait mode on my iPhone. If you don't have an iPhone, portrait mode is a camera feature where the center focal point becomes 3D.

I wanted to squeeze every last drop of beauty out of my orange dahlias. I would like to remember how beautiful they are forever.

I'm amazed at their perfection.

I have added tall garden herbs like rosemary and Cuban oregano to accent the dahlias. I mean, why not? I'm trying to create something unique. Plus, they smell good.

My flower arrangement skills are basic+. I took a class once in artificial flower arranging. I remember one or two teachings none of which made their way into this vase.

I don't want them to, but the orange blooms fade a little every day.

Does anyone know what's happened to the old me? The old me who did not immortalize garden flowers.

I see her familiar face when I look in the mirror.

I never admitted to looking like my mother when I was young. I always thought I had more of my dad's features, like his widow's peak, full cheeks, and blue eyes.

On occasion, my kids tell me that I look like Oma.

Yes, she who toiled in urban plant jungles.

I see it, too, but only in recent years since my face has lost its suppleness.

It was bound to happen I guess.

Once I’m gone, my kids will inherit my photo gallery replete with 10,000 photos in the cloud. No child of mine will have to pack them up into plastic bins.

No one will call my pictures boring either. Why? They probably will not bother looking or downloading any of my saved photos.

My pictures, like me, will be a part of the cosmos.

I do hope they will remember how beautiful and perfect I was.

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