What it means to bloom before the fall
She was once a girl
coveting a rose,
a tight bud, barely open, verdant leaves hiding what lies beneath.
Just one, please –
she doesn’t have enough for the dozen.
A dozen years.
Her father calls to her
from the kitchen,
He’s here, he says.
She grabs the rose,
a boutonniere,
(She wonders if they even
make boutonnieres
anymore)
to place upon her date
for the dance
(She wonders if they even
have dances
anymore.)
He has one for her too,
a garish corsage,
it’s itchy and too tight
on her thin wrist.
She hates it
and she loves it.
She loves that he
that someone
that anyone
would give her a rose,
even one she hates.
…..
Two dozen years.
She falls in love.
He sends her
two dozen roses,
all red,
because he’s fallen
in love with her.
She falls into his lap and
he reads her poetry,
the Irish kind.
She reads him prose,
the American kind.
She tells everyone
about the roses
about their love
about the poems
about him.
Later,
when he falls
from the bridge
on purpose,
she thinks of those roses,
two dozen,
all gone.
…..
Three dozen years.
A baby blooms in her belly.
The baby’s father,
her husband,
doesn’t believe in roses.
He says,
They’re not worth it.
You’re not worth it.
He says,
They’re tacky
and unfashionable
and oversold.
Like you.
The roses
at the supermarket
stay unbought.
They open
and close
and die,
her marriage
closes
and dies,
whether from lying
stagnant
in too much water
or
thirsting
from too little.
What difference does it make?
…..
Her father tells her
the glory of the rose bush,
the neverending blooms,
the heady scent,
the showstoppingness of it all.
You should plant some,
he says.
Roses are trite,
she replies.
You just haven’t seen
the way the roses bloom, my love.
You just haven’t seen
what they can do yet.
So, she plants them
the roses,
all yellow.
She buys them
for herself
bouquets of
white
yellow
orange
peach
coral and
never red.
Red always feels like
it’s on fire.
Red feels like pain.
She wonders at
their evolution,
at their particular
arc through time.
They begin
She began
as a tight, new bud,
soon reaching a soft
wondering
openness,
still tightly bound,
petals firm,
colors fresh.
As they age,
As she ages,
the blossom softens wide,
slowly, but also,
overnight,
so that when she
walks in the room one day
she wonders,
Where did they come from?
Where did she come from?
The aging blossom’s color
fades, its edges
slightly torn and worn, but still
luxurious, almost showy
in its sensuality
nothing hidden anymore,
bigger, wider, softer than before,
but also,
coming forth with a presence
that says,
Look at me.
I am worth
everything you did
to get me.
I am luxury.
I am wisdom.
I am softness.
I am sure.
…..
Four dozen years.
He brings her flowers
of every kind.
He knows the kinds
she likes, knows
she loves yellow roses.
And when they marry
she carries a bouquet of
white roses
and stands in front of
the bushes her father
planted with her,
yellow ones.
And when she places
her bouquets into
a vase,
he likes to nuzzle
the roses
with his nose
with his lips
and he smiles
and says,
This reminds me of
something,
something nice.
And she smiles too.
…..
Eight dozen years.
Her shoulders rolled,
Neck curved,
the way the dying rose’s
neck bends with the
weight of the dying bud.
The petals fallen to the
table, the way
her thoughts fall
through her fingertips.
She doesn’t remember
who brought them,
the roses,
but she likes to watch
their evolution,
their particular arc
through time.
A petal falls,
she picks it up,
it is yellow
even still,
and she remembers,
almost remembers,
what it means
to bloom
before the fall.
