I love the dahlias. The lipstick colors, gratuitous petals and thick, expressive stems – it’s like God gave their blossoms a boob job. I mean, you can’t help but stare. And wonder what they’d look like in your little green vase.
Buying flowers on Sunday isn’t an indulgence – although I’m not proud of that. It’s been a blessing I sorely needed, a reminder that it takes no work at all to fall in love. Fresh from the buckets crammed into the flat-bed of the farmer’s truck, their beauty is so urgent. Flowers won’t tolerate your procrastination. The curl of that lip-tender petal can’t wait until you’ve been a good citizen and vacuumed something dusty. Their light is only here so long. Tomorrow morning, the petals will already be just a little bored with putting on their show, no matter how dutifully you give them fresh water to drink.
I wish I was more useful for the people I love just now. Life has taken them deeper into her labyrinth – to places I was too scared and too self-centered to go. And their current troubles don’t have answers that can fit into a coffee cup, or a rocks glass. Even listening seems too meager a response – but I don’t know what else I can do.
This picture isn’t much help, I guess. It’s all about me and my patchwork life, scrapped together from wrong choices I’ve found a way to live with. I guess me and the flowers are looking for the same thing. Just to find our light in the late afternoon, and trust that if we miss it today, it will come around again on Sunday.