Flowers for grandma

We were going to my grandparent's little farm, the place where I was born and where my parents had lived before we moved to the city.
We were walking from the train station, my mom and I, in that perpetual summer we seem to have in childhood memories.
The occasion was the slaughter of the pig that my grandparents had raised, but my mother had decided to come late to avoid--as she told me--the scream of the animal.
There we were. I must have been about four or five years old, and the road was dusty but on the sides of the ditches there were clusters of little wild violets.
I was enchanted and I picked the flowers, these delicate little things and held them in my hand because I had decided to pick them for grandma.
When we got to the farm the killing was over and I got to give granny the now slightly wilted and sad looking bunch of flowers.
I don't think she ever had flowers from a grandchild before; my cousins being, in a polite way of saying this, somewhat challenged and most assuredly not into picking flowers.
She thanked me sweetly but a little bewildered and found a cup, filled it with water and put my offering in it.
I think the next time someone gave her flowers was when she and granddaddy celebrated their fiftieth anniversary and the neighbors and family filled their small living room with endless pots of Hydrangea.
There is no picture of my flowers, but there is, somewhere, a picture of my grandparents, sitting on a couch surrounded by pots and pots of Hydrangea, looking a bit lost.
I'd like to think that my flowers made granny happier than all the pots of polite Hydrangeas.