Memories
There are four flowers hanging upside down from the doorknob of my spare bedroom. Two red roses from him, a white rose from a friend, and a red carnation from the huge bouquet on my mom's casket. Each one has special memory attached, and I'm saving them so I can look at them in 5, 10, 20 years and remember. I'm not a pack rat. I don't save every scrap of paper I receive from someone important, and I do go through my closets and throw things out, but I like to be able to have something physical that I an associate with a memory.
In 5, 10, 20 years, I can look at the red roses and remember coming home from a whirlwind week, and finding a vase outside my door. I will remember texting Mary and Malia in excitement, "He got me flowers," proudly displaying them in my living room, and taking pictures to show my mom.
In 5, 10, 20 years, I will look at the white rose and remember getting a call in Payless from the flower shop asking if they could deliver flowers to my apartment. I will remember gasping at the site of the bouquet, and wanting to cry when I read the card.
In 5, 10, 20 years, I will look at the carnation and remember my mom. I will remember how windy it was at the cemetary, and how I hoped and prayed that my skirt wouldn't fly up in the middle of the burial. I will remember how I didn't cry that entire week, and how I knew that was typical. I will remember the support from family and friends.
All these memories from four dried flowers. To the average person, they mean nothing. But to me, they hold so many memories.
In 5, 10, 20 years, I can look at the red roses and remember coming home from a whirlwind week, and finding a vase outside my door. I will remember texting Mary and Malia in excitement, "He got me flowers," proudly displaying them in my living room, and taking pictures to show my mom.
In 5, 10, 20 years, I will look at the white rose and remember getting a call in Payless from the flower shop asking if they could deliver flowers to my apartment. I will remember gasping at the site of the bouquet, and wanting to cry when I read the card.
In 5, 10, 20 years, I will look at the carnation and remember my mom. I will remember how windy it was at the cemetary, and how I hoped and prayed that my skirt wouldn't fly up in the middle of the burial. I will remember how I didn't cry that entire week, and how I knew that was typical. I will remember the support from family and friends.
All these memories from four dried flowers. To the average person, they mean nothing. But to me, they hold so many memories.