I remember when my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I was finishing up track practice, standing in the parking lot with my friends cracking jokes. Several missed calls tipped me off. Something was not right. My mom broke the news to me on the phone. Dad’s in the hospital.
Everything changed overnight.
My uncles and cousins were in the backyard with power tools building a ramp off the deck. Dad’s in a wheelchair. We’re all moving furniture downstairs. Dad sleeps in the sun room now. Stairs are not an option for him. Dad’s hair is gone. The doorbell keeps ringing but no one comes inside anymore.
The fridge is packed to the brim with lasagna, pasta, salad, and other containers no one seems hungry enough to open. The doorbell rings again. Ding dong grief ditching. People wave from their car as they back out of the driveway. Flowers are left on the doorstep. Are we too sad to hang out with? Quarantined as if grief were contagious. They’re just trying to be nice.
More flowers arrive than we know what to do with. The kitchen table is covered is vases now. Beautiful bouquets that don’t catch my eye anymore. They fade into the background of our now too quiet house. Back and forth hospital visits. Dad’s dying, but no one says it out loud. Not to me at least. Last week’s flowers wilt. This week’s flowers wilt.
Flowers in the trashcan.
Vases under the sink, tucked out of sight.
More wilted flowers on the kitchen counter. The doorbell rings again. No, please not more flowers. We’re running out of cabinet space for all these vases. I never thought I’d resent something so beautiful.
More flowers in the trashcan. Death is all around us. My whole world wilted overnight.
I remember when my partner Ian died, a woman who owns a flower shop in Durango donated bouquets of marigolds and sunflowers to his memorial service. I don’t remember her name. Beautiful in the meadow under Hesperus.
When the service ended that same sinking feeling washed over me. Now what? What do I do with all these flowers? No I don’t want them.
Ashley took them to her cabin. She strung them up on her porch and let them dry. A month later she visited me with a vase of dried petals. Beautiful. Nothing I needed to do. Flowers on the mantel instead of in the trashcan.
I remember Lena coming over and gifting me a bright purple flower rooted in soil. It sat on my windowsill in dry dirt that I never remembered to water. It wilted. I pulled the curtain over just enough to hide it out of sight.
At my Grandma’s funeral, one of the women in the Baptist Church told my aunts and mom they couldn’t put flowers in the church. They said they already did it and weren’t going to undo it.
My grandma loved flowers. She loved spring, loved to plant flowers, and made my corsage for Prom. She liked to wear a corsage for Easter every year.
My cousin had a word with this woman. She said, “This is why the church hasn’t been attracting young members! Because of rules like this. My Grandma just died and you’re telling me I can’t put flowers in here?”
“It’s not traditional to have flowers in the church,” the woman with you know what up her you know what said.
“Well this isn’t the church it’s the chapel!”
They won. The flowers stayed. I hardly noticed them.
At the service after, my aunts prepared an envelope of seeds for everyone to take home. Forget me nots. I don’t remember ever planting a seed and it successfully sprouting.
But I’m trying again. A few weeks ago I planted the Forget Me Not seeds. Nothing’s happened yet. I’m hopeful.
I don’t want to associate flowers with death. But I do.
Rom coms led me to expect flowers from boys. I’ve never received romantic flowers. There were corsages for Homecoming and Prom but no date bouquets. I was always fine with that. At a young age I decided to turn my nose up to the wasteful flower industry.
Last week I hosted a writing workshop. A woman wrote about picking out flowers in front of Trader Joe’s.
I don’t remember ever buying flowers, not once in my whole life.
But this is something she does often. We were practicing writing from the point of view of a stranger watching us. The stranger in the story wondered if she was picking out flowers for someone who died.
This led me to think about the flower culture associated with grief and loss.
I wish it was more common to give and receive flowers for celebrations. Wouldn’t that be nice?
This week I was Glen Canyon Conservancy’s guest lecturer for the month, which means I prepared for an hour long storytelling event. I even made a powerpoint to go behind me as I spoke. The biggest event of my author career so far in Page, Arizona, a town I am still new to.
A friend I made just days before walked in the door with a mason jar of white tulips.
For me?
“Congratulations,” she said hugging me.
I knew she was spiritual but damn. This girl’s been reading my mind.
“Thank you!” I beamed, accepting the flowers and putting them next to my dirt encrusted rubber chicken on the podium.
The next day my mom called.
“Look outside at your fence. A package was just delivered,” she said.
“How do you know? You got eyes in the trees?” I joked. I walked outside and opened the package in the backyard with Mallow sniffing the corners.
Inside was a vase and flowers.
“You shipped me flowers?” I asked, staring at the pink roses below me.
I always knew Mom was a mind reader.
“Yes, and you better enjoy them because I’ll never do that again,” Mom laughed.
She launched into the story of these missing flowers. They were supposed to arrive before my book event, but arrived the day after.
“I was on the phone for an hour trying to track down those damn flowers. Guess where I found them?” Mom asked.
“I dunno,” I shrugged. “Where?”
“Mississippi!” she said.
“Mississippi?” I asked.
“Yeah, can you believe it? I said What the hell are they doing in Mississippi? I canceled the order. There was no way they were going to make it to you on time. I thought they would pick somewhere closer to deliver the flowers,” Mom said.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It gets even more ridiculous. So ten minutes after I hang up, some lady calls me back. Tells me the flowers are on a plane to Flagstaff! They put your flowers on a plane!”
“And then drove them 2.5 hours to Page, wow,” I said.
The carbon footprint on these flowers is astronomical.
My mom and I laughed and she said I better enjoy them a few more times.
To my surprise, I am enjoying them. I put them on my living room table and every single time I walk in the door and see them, I smile.
“Who would’ve thought?” I asked my partner Jaden.
He rolled his eyes, laughed, and said, “So many people.”
That’s when I remembered who the first person to ever give me flowers was.
My mom.
I was six, wearing a giant yellow bow that accentuated my big ears. Proud as heck for pointing my toes and spinning in the same direction as the other girls on stage. Dreaming of the day I would be like the older girls and wear Pointe shoes and dance on my toes. (That day never came).
My siblings all hated going to my dance recitals.
My dad would say, “If your sister has a dance recital, we all have a dance recital.” The same was true for baseball, basketball, t-ball, and soccer games. His tone when he said dance recital was a lot less convincing though, like he was going to go but he was prepared to suffer.
My mom would tell everyone to shut up and get in the car and be happy for me. She’d clap and cheer and snap photos.
And she always brought me flowers.
Every year, for every dance recital.
I never knew where she hid them. I never saw her buy them or carry them in but she was always waiting outside after the recital with a bouquet.
I remember the flowers always matched my dress.
I’m so grateful to receive flowers from my mom in times of celebration.
I’m eager now to do the same for others.
Next time someone dies, skip the grief flowers. Grievers don’t need any more logistics to fail at. Grievers don’t need any flowers that are also going to die.
Next time someone achieves something, get the flowers.
Beth Henshaw 