The man understands instantly that all is not well. He comes bearing a soothing voice and all manner of assistance. I was not expecting the bouquet but after the first smack of surprise, I realize it is just what I need.
The bouquet is not a professional floral arrangement. It’s Queen Ann’s Lace, those tiny blue flowers I don’t know the name of, dandelions plump and yellow. Best of all are sprigs of lavender. I fill a canning jar with water, snip the bottoms of everything and put the gift on my table, stems splaying at angles, others upright. I breathe in the grassy smells and especially the lavender.
Other helpers come because they are called, I go out to meet others. They arrive in the form of words or provisions. It’s alright, all of it. How many times, have I, in fact, been the helper? Too many times to count? Yes.
For days upon days, the flowers brighten and refuse to fade. Blooms I didn’t notice when the bouquet arrived unfurl and blossom. I know it won’t last forever, this flower show in the midst of it all. It went on longer than I thought it would. That’s important to mention.
Slowly, then quickly the inevitable transpires. Eventually it all ends up in the garbage. The memories carry me a little, until they don’t.
I make a phone call to the man who brought the kind eyes, the bouquet. I can’t expect him to read my mind even if he did do so that one time.
He is scattered, sorry I am not well, but his voice is too brusque for patience. When I mention the bouquet and gather my resources to ask for another, he finds this funny. You can’t depend on flowers! That is not what they are for! The idea of him keeping me supplied with bouquets strikes him as ludicrous. He’s still laughing when I say a hasty goodbye. Someone is at the door, I lie.
I realize that the man has empathy that flits on and off like a faulty wire.
I vent about it to the others. It amuses me. But I am still unwell.
Somebody suggests I learn to sit with anger, learn to tolerate the discomfort. This I cannot do.
It is winter, there are no flowers in the park even if I could justify picking them. The weeds nobody cares about are dead. There is no money for the florist even if I like what they have, which I don’t.
I rifle around for leftovers, anything to be put to use. A rainbow of construction paper, a stash of pipe cleaners, tissue paper, yarn. The YouTube videos are too crafty, too calculated. I am left with myself. I make my own damned bouquet, stick it in a proper vase, then tape some individual flowers, all misfits, to the walls.
He shows up some days or weeks later, everything blends together now. He brings wisdom he thinks I want and some books of advice. He means well.
What’s the matter, he finally asks, brows furrowed. He can’t figure this out. Nothing, I say.
From the archives:
Pegboard
Hospitality
Check Back With Me Later
The bouquet is not a professional floral arrangement. It’s Queen Ann’s Lace, those tiny blue flowers I don’t know the name of, dandelions plump and yellow. Best of all are sprigs of lavender. I fill a canning jar with water, snip the bottoms of everything and put the gift on my table, stems splaying at angles, others upright. I breathe in the grassy smells and especially the lavender.
Other helpers come because they are called, I go out to meet others. They arrive in the form of words or provisions. It’s alright, all of it. How many times, have I, in fact, been the helper? Too many times to count? Yes.
For days upon days, the flowers brighten and refuse to fade. Blooms I didn’t notice when the bouquet arrived unfurl and blossom. I know it won’t last forever, this flower show in the midst of it all. It went on longer than I thought it would. That’s important to mention.
Slowly, then quickly the inevitable transpires. Eventually it all ends up in the garbage. The memories carry me a little, until they don’t.
I make a phone call to the man who brought the kind eyes, the bouquet. I can’t expect him to read my mind even if he did do so that one time.
He is scattered, sorry I am not well, but his voice is too brusque for patience. When I mention the bouquet and gather my resources to ask for another, he finds this funny. You can’t depend on flowers! That is not what they are for! The idea of him keeping me supplied with bouquets strikes him as ludicrous. He’s still laughing when I say a hasty goodbye. Someone is at the door, I lie.
I realize that the man has empathy that flits on and off like a faulty wire.
I vent about it to the others. It amuses me. But I am still unwell.
Somebody suggests I learn to sit with anger, learn to tolerate the discomfort. This I cannot do.
It is winter, there are no flowers in the park even if I could justify picking them. The weeds nobody cares about are dead. There is no money for the florist even if I like what they have, which I don’t.
I rifle around for leftovers, anything to be put to use. A rainbow of construction paper, a stash of pipe cleaners, tissue paper, yarn. The YouTube videos are too crafty, too calculated. I am left with myself. I make my own damned bouquet, stick it in a proper vase, then tape some individual flowers, all misfits, to the walls.
He shows up some days or weeks later, everything blends together now. He brings wisdom he thinks I want and some books of advice. He means well.
What’s the matter, he finally asks, brows furrowed. He can’t figure this out. Nothing, I say.
From the archives:
Pegboard
Hospitality
Check Back With Me Later