Thursday, April 26, 2012
Tulips, Time, and Toil
It's totally like me to love something as fleeting as flowers.
As soon as the pansy is plucked it begins to die. And, what's more, it inevitably leaves a wreath of pollen, petal, and plant product on the table. Not to mention the vase of vile swamp water, scum skimming the top.
When I fell in love with Dr. Gooch and he fell in love with me, I felt like he would, at any moment, flee, dropping wrinkled petals in his wake. It was not that he was too good to be true, it was that we were too good to be true. The match, it was too good. Too. Good. The pair of us was so easy. This was before I knew the work of marriage. The re-pluck factor. That is the nature of a moment, that is doesn't last. But there are forever fields of moments.
Every day I enter the garden armed with scissors and gloves to trim the tulips, pluck more pansies, or rob the rose bushes and lop off the lavender. No smooth surface is safe. The tables, of course, but also the piano, the mantels, the back of the toilet, the laundry counter, the window sill, and the bathroom sink.
I am afflicted with an affection for flowers that will only fade (the flowers, not my affection). Maybe that is the attraction? Is it the temporariness that taunts me?
That is the work of it. To forever have flowers, one must continually clip, clean, and freshen the water.
This is the moral: it's all worth it--the work. Keep plucking.