I often bemoan the difficulties with my memory. Words, in either English or French, are almost there but disappear with the wisp of a powder puff. In their stead, I will pounce upon useless details that serve nothing. At times I am fearful for the future, wondering if there will be nothing left but dust. And so I document, in thoughts and pictures, events that I would be better off simply enjoying, in order to safe guard them somewhere. An external hard drive of my life.
And yet there can be certain upsides to my state. I keep my favorite novels on the shelf, knowing that I will be able to reread them anew with only the vaguest recollections, touch points of a ship bobbing on the tide. I experienced a similar moment of “oh, yes” today at the market, watching a young woman tuck a paper-wrapped bouquet of peonies under her arm. “I love peonies,” I remembered.
And so I walked up past the baskets of strawberries to the flower stand for the first time in months, since autumn, having let orchid statues fill the vases past their winter due date. The seller smiled with surprise to see me. “It has been a long time.” It has, I nodded. He knows that I prefer lighter colors, white whenever possible, yet steered me towards coral tight-fisted blooms. As I was preparing to pay, he turned as he often does to grab their paler cousins and wrapped them too, a gift. “They won’t last past the weekend anyway.” I gave my sincere thanks, for that is what they were and wished him a Bon Weekend.
Arriving back at the apartment, I stacked my red peppers and tomatoes, leaving the flowers for last, until even after having wiped down the kitchen. I reached up into the glass cabinet to bring down the right vases and trimmed the stems. Lowering the bouquets into water, I arranged them with tiny pushes, a balancing act and was content with my work. Content with the soft feathering petals and light smoke of fragrance. Content in recognition, the pleasure of forgetting.
The red will be hard to forget. Harder when the "coral tight-fisted blooms" open.
Red speaks the vibrant flow of life.
Heather I am astounded by these thought provoking and poignant words.
The flowers are gorgeous!
xoxo
Karena
Art by Karena
Lovely. Thank you! You've revived my memory of peonies I brought back to the little house we rented in Bordeaux last spring. Ah, the fragrance. . .
Stunning images, Heather, and wisdom in your words as well as, for me, recognition.
Not only can there be pleasure in forgetting, but at times, grace.
Poignant et beautiful…
White roses are my second favourite flower; the palest peony is the first and you have given me the perfect gift for Mother's Day from Provence, stems and all. Here in New England, the peonies are still at the tight dot stage . . . and so we are patient. Thank you for the lovely sentiment, Heather.
So beautiful, and I really needed this today. This post gave me peace. Thank you.
Gorgeous blooms. I hope your weekend is wonderful. I get forgetful too, sometimes. It is annoying but it's part of life, I suppose.
written superbly. funny enough we forget scribes were there purely to write things down so we could document things so things don't change much do they..?
Beautiful, both the photos and your writing. I can relate to this so well.