Flowers on Sunday are Enough

It’s important to remind myself why I’m buying flowers every week.

This week I got sunflowers and asters and alstroemeria – with some wild phlox tangled in, cut from the embankment behind my building.  I had some dear people in mind when I picked out those flowers – and filled the blue canning jar, and the white pitcher with something I imagine they would like.  It was wonderful to gather all the shapes together – the wild phlox pointing every which way between the tiny purple daisies and the juicy big sunflowers.  Handfuls of late summer prairie on a rainy May morning.  The radiant nacho-orange of the sunflowers makes the other petals glow – perking up their reddish-purple like a blazing sunset.  Deep yellow is friends with almost every other color.

As it turned out, though, I had more than enough to see with this lovely creature, purloined from a spirea that rambles along the edge of public park, behind a neighbor’s overgrown back-forty.

Yes. I went on my walk this morning with a cup of water in one hand and garden snips in my pocket, wearing my highly conspicuous, floppy orange hat.  It was raining when I went.  It’s about a 10 minute walk to the park.  I really wanted some spirea.

On the way home, I lost the spring that opens and closes my Dollar Store garden snips.  I paid the price.  Totally worth it.

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Flowers on Sunday a Day Late


I said to myself several times yesterday, “Sandy’s Birthday – call and leave her a message.”  Always thought it in the middle of doing some Saturday thing – and wanting to wait until I could concentrate my attention on you.  And then, May 15 was gone and it was a day later.

I thought about when you and Bob stayed with us in Apartment 402.  Pammy and I were so excited find our beautiful cousin and her funny, sweet man arranged in their sleeping bags in the living room.  A Ballerina!  In our Very House.  Much, much better than a Princess.

Of course, I just remember the big impressions – the way Mama loved and admired you, that Marv was happy to have a reason to be his jovial, entertaining self.  I believe a fair number of Brown Cow floats were made and enjoyed.  I’m sure Pammy and I wanted you to stay forever and show us how to be tall and graceful and have perfect long brown hair.

And that’s exactly what you did.

Much, much love, darlin’ Sandy.  Happy Birthday!




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Flowers on Sunday From Mother’s Day

Another night falling asleep in the middle of the flowers.  And tonight my poor little brain slept right through midnight.  Technically, it’s Monday – but let’s keep that to ourselves.

I have to go back to sleep, honeys.  It was a good Mother’s Day.  The flowers saw to that.  Sending you all my love. – B.

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Flowers on Sunday May Almost

Darling, I fell asleep again in the middle of writing you.  I get so tired and I close my eyes – and woosh, I’m off to that warm, dark quiet cloud.  And I don’t even hear Inspector Barnaby arrest the killer.  I mean, there sure are a lot of murders in the Midsomer area, aren’t there?  Why are their real estate values still so high?

So let’s just consider that I’ve already told you all the things I needed to say and just get to the heart of it:  I love you with all the petals I can get my hands on. Can’t help it.  Sweet dreams, Dreamy Dear.  So warm and dark and Sweet.


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Flowers on Sunday, My Dear

April has its reasons for flowers.  New jobs and new places.  Hours and hours more daylight.  Even a little housekeeping feels like a celebration, with the windows finally open, and the bluster of birdsong coming in with the breeze, declaring nests and territories and competitions all along Whitcomb Drive.

But most reliably, April has birthdays that come two by two by two in our family.  Pammy and me and Lily.  And Barbara and Patsy, who hold the 29th day of April for their own arrival on Planet Earth.  Separated by an ocean of time but both beautiful mirrors of love and delight in this life – and oh, equally possessed of the whimsiest sense of humor because, after all – April has finally won and there is plenty to laugh about.

All the love my heart can give, to you my dear – and many whimsy returns.

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Flowers on Sunday a Little

I guess the writing I share is quite personal.  I don’t think I disclose that much – but on the other hand, I have to tell someone – someone.

I feel far more exposed trying to make something beautiful to look at, than looking for words to say I miss the particulars of someone’s skin or breath, or other features I know only by imagining.  Those things can be told and shown – whether anyone actually reads them or not.  Of course, I’m afraid you’ll know – but I’m more afraid you won’t know how deep I fell, or that I could fall again with just the gentlest squeeze of your hand.

But I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing with the pictures.  The impossible loveliness always on the edges of the frame, always a little shy.  It’s there when I close my eyes and remember your smile, and I can never quite show that feeling of the sun spreading in my heart, except for the flowers.

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Flowers on Sunday Forsythia

It was the forsythia today, in the end.

I fell asleep – and this is true – while I was editing the pictures, so I made this in a dream, I suppose.

But also, forgive me.  I’ll have to call it a night, instead of giving the words their play.  Everything I want to say is all here anyway.

I love you, sweet heart. Forsythia, for always, I do.

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Flowers on Sunday for Pammy

Sweetheart.  These are for us on our birthday, served up by the old Delft vase. Do you remember it? She’s is so fragile, with cracks clear through the porcelain.  But she insisted she should hold the flowers, so I found a way.  Now, I can see why.  She’s in her garden, sharing it with us.

I keep dozing off, when what I want is to write a little bit more.  Or maybe I want to join the flowers in their dream, and meet you there, too.  You can drift in, between the petals, and be there any moment.

Oh sweetheart.  This year, this year.  But spring isn’t waiting anymore.  It’s here.  Things are better than before.

Love you, fifty-seven.  Love you so much.

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Flowers on Sunday All Told

I bought all the ranunculus I possibly could, dear.  Their petals are nothing more than wisps of color, yet astonishingly determined to reveal the rich, fertile center hidden within their incandescent wings.  Thank you so much for your help seeing the flowers.

To my surprise you asked for orange marmalade to put on the crumpets.  You were very clear about that – not apricot or peach.  And decent tea, with brie and apple.  The apple was full of summer, still thick and white inside, and just a little mouth-watering tartness, beneath the perfume of honey.

The wind blew the clouds over the sun like a bad mood, and then a moment later, brushed them away into clear, shining blue.  Over and over, the light dimmed and then regained the sky – changing the flowers and their story from one unforeseeable moment to the next.  Like your troubled, beautiful self – threatening storms, then beaming as if nothing was every wrong.

We had our talk, and I cried.  I wrote down what you said.  Keep taking chances.  All the best things happen when you fall in love and break your heart.

I wish you didn’t have to go.  We understand each other so much better now.  The unavoidable truth is, you had to leave forever for us to forgive each other.  For that, I know we are both sorry.

It was a very good day to be on Earth.

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Flowers on Sunday Another Cuppa

I do think this is the Most Barbara one I’ve made so far.  And I think all you who loved her would have to agree.  As she discovered – at some point, there can’t be any wrong colors, as long as it’s flowers.

I’ve been waiting until late at night to do the dishes, so I can be in the kitchen by myself.  I feel self-conscious about disturbing my landlady with the hiss of water and clang of pans, while she soaks up her Shows in the next room.  It’s reminded me of the excruciating month I stayed with mom in her bed-sit on Ebury Court.  I’d be up all night, listening to the radio while she slept, finally dozing off about 4 am.  She would be furious at me for sleeping so late everyday.  The quarters were just too close, the two of us in that one room – so I think I found a way to cope, living as myself while she was sleeping.

The spring and summer of 2019, I made so many pictures from inside my life.  Unmade bed pictures, late night pictures – imagining someone wanted to see inside this room, see inside me.  Then late last spring, my heart got broken and those pictures stopped.  I don’t know.  If things had been different, would I have found this path?  This way of making things has been one of the happiest experiences of my life.

I really understand now why she wanted to look everywhere except her own life for her work.  And if I thought for one minute I could get away from myself, I would be only to happy to learn to sing that song.  But I know that’s impossible.  It doesn’t matter where I look. A tangle of covers and cupful of improbable flowers all draw the same picture.  Love was here, almost real, almost within reach.

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