flowers

After a few days away, Mark returns with flowers.  Walking in the house, he hands me permission to accept them as quickly as he hands me the bouquet.  "I know.  But I wanted you to have them."

Even though I love flowers, and even though they bring me joy every time I walk past them, Mark knows that my practical side will mean I will struggle with the extravagance of temporary beauty.  So he hugs me, whispers kindness to me, and pushes those flowers on me - always with a smile that comes from knowing deep down I am delighted with his gift.

I never put them in one big vase.  I take as much time as I can steal to get a little creative in how I'll arrange them: in my mini-vase from a friend's wedding 13 years ago, or in a jelly jar, or in crystal.  The roses always go on my dresser.  The wild ones always go in the kitchen.  The daisies - because he always thinks to get me my favorites - move around because I want them to have the perfect place.

The day after the piano recital, Mark sits on the porch with flowers I received from a graduating student.  With tiny scissors, he carefully cuts out all the parts that make my eyes swell, so the beauty can still stay inside with me.

After a day filled with busy 9-month-old explorations, a long meeting, piling up disobedience, and unmet expectations, the house gets quiet.  And, almost against my nature, I turn my gaze from practicalities and instead take out my camera to spend time with my flowers.  They are speaking spring, femininity, beauty - but mostly, love.

Thanks, B.