Fresh cut flowers–
Bundles of baby’s breath, dahlias and daisies
Hugged together in the jar on my kitchen island,
Straining to find some semblance of sun
As stars twinkle outside,
Hidden beneath the wisps and whirls
Of dancing clouds in the damp, dark sky.
Pinks and purples and whites
Joined together, because… they were pretty at the market–
Lovingly placed one by one to give each flower its moment to shine.
Fresh cut flowers sit
On counters and tables, nightstands and bookshelves,
A thoughtful, cherished, beautiful gift.
They brighten our homes and our lives and
Remind us of love and are reminders of loved ones.
A fragile, wilting, dying reminder.
Pretty for a fleeting moment in time,
Loved while they last, but lasting only long enough for us to notice
When they are gone.
A brief, fleeting season of our lives,
Our fresh cut flowers--
And our loved ones.
When those we love are gone
And our grief is not enough to remember them,
And we leave them fresh cut flowers in the hope
That they know how much we love them,
Still.
How much we cherish them,
Still.
How often we think of them,
Still.
If grief is what is left when those we love have gone,
When they have gone
And have left a crater in our hearts
That all the fresh cut flowers in the world cannot fill,
When the weight presses in
And our hearts are trapped in our throats
With all the words we wish we could say and have them hear–
Then what happens to our fresh cut flowers?
They are fragile.
They are grief.
They are love.
They are a precious, cherished memory–
They are gone.