There were a dozen or more buckets on the display rack, each holding a few bunches of different cut flowers, and it initially overwhelmed me, at a time I was overwhelmed by the task at hand.
I touched, poked, and picked at them, picturing kerchiefed older women behind, or in front of, a market stall. Depending on where she stood, she was either picking and poking and straightening her display, or picking and poking and rearranging it, searching for 'the best' of whatever she was shopping for. It made me smile, and gave me a moment to catch my breath before moving ahead.
There were several bunches of sunflowers to choose from. Mom loved sunflowers; she and Jen saved and planted seeds from ones they got at the market, and she delighted in their crop. There were a couple bunches with three flowers, or four. I kept picking and found a bunch with five. Whew.
What next? Alstroemeria - so pretty, another of her favorites. White? Yellow? Pink? How about soft red? Yes - those work! Baboo-approved, into the cart they went.
Most of the special deal flowers were min-carnations, but that was OK. There were orange ones, reminiscent of Dad's traffic-stopping azalea that grew on the east side of the house. That's not a joke - people would stop to admire it, ask to take pictures of it, or ask if they could look at it up close. Yes, and yes, of course you can!
There were burgundy-and-white ones, which called to mind the giant rhododendron, anchoring the other end of the east side of the house, another show-stopper they both loved. I was with her at the library one day, a few years after Dad had passed, and someone stopped to tell her how beautiful the two plants were. I listened as they chatted about the flowers, and life, and I had a bit of a happy tear in my eye as we headed back to the car.
Ivory, and white, too - more carnations. They added light, and grace, as did she; the flowers different enough to add both to the cart. Teasel, sea holly, and statis; they're all stronger than they look, and while not classically beautiful like a perfect rose, beautiful nonetheless; into the cart they went, and then home, all of them into a pickle bucket on the porch.
Thursday morning, after my garden walk, I laid out the nine bunches of flowers on an old tablecloth on the porch floor, removed their plastic sleeves and the rubber bands holding their stems together, and I became the woman at the market, picking and poking and rearranging. I started with the sunflowers, anchoring each of the five bouquets I needed, trying to spread the other stems equally by volume, if nothing else. They weren't all the same, but that was OK.
Neither are we - my brothers and me; my nephew; my uncle and my cousin. We are all different, too. Certainly, none of us are classically beautiful, but we are beautiful nonetheless. We are stronger than we look - we have to be, for what we've all been through individually and together - and for whatever is to come.
On a rainy Friday morning, in a town that was her home for nearly sixty years, we placed our imperfect bouquets on Mom's casket and said our final official goodbye, sixteen years to the day after we said our final official goodbye to Dad.
That part of it all, at least, was perfect.
