Nowadays, I think of summer in terms of phases of deaths of flowers.
This has to do with my mindset, my life situation, my age. For the past three years, I have tried to find a partner. This has not happened. There have been several attempts. All ended. The one I miss the most, I miss the most. Though he is fading. The mindset of summer as death also has to do with getting older. As you age, summers go faster.
Summer is my best friend. I feel more free during summer. I can wear fewer clothes, and skip out the door, unhindered — not having to brace for life or the day with layers of clothing.
I get kissed, caressed by the sun. It relaxes my body. My spirit.
The irises appear in early May, bold in their purple. A few of them are golden-yellow with mahogany tongues in the center of their petals. Some are light lavender. All of them have a sheen.
These die by end of May. They crinkle up, like papier mâché.
I remember this markedly, because my ex boyfriend's dad died in late May of last year, and the irises were blooming, like champs. I would go on walks and think about his dad’s death. I would think about the new connection Kevin and I had. He and I got together a few times in the wake of his dad’s death, after having not seen each other in two years.
It was lovely to see him.
And as I went on walks, feeling, thinking hoping . . . the irises witnessed.
And I witnessed them.
They were a sign of how glorious it was I was back in touch with Kevin. They were a tribute to the sadness and glory of loss and life.
One time I stopped to take a picture of them. I sent it to Kevin. The irises felt like they were “our thing.” In my brain.
It did not last beyond summer, Kevin and I seeing each other.
This year, as the anniversary of his dad’s death approached, I wondered if I might see him again. I held him in my heart more than usual as the month of May marched on. I wondered what he might be thinking and feeling. May 27 was the day.
I saw the irises burst in their wonder.
Would I do anything to commemorate the one-year anniversary?
I did not want to be manipulative.
Two days before, I knew the answer.
I would.
I painted him a card and put a poem on it. I bought a little ceramic blue bowl and a personal-sized key-lime pie. I cut some irises and put them in a purple-colored glass vase.
At the dawn of the day, I left the gift and irises on his porch.
He texted me. Touched. Appreciative.
And life slipped on.
The irises died earlier this year than they did last year.
It seemed about right.
From then on, I knew better. Any time a new type of flower appeared, I thought, “Welp, we’ll see how long you last.” I wanted to say goodbye before the flower left. So I could feel the pain first.
Today, in late July, I saw the first sunflower bursting forth.
A sunflower is the true death of summer, and this I have known for a long time, even before I started thinking of summer as a series of flower funerals, starting last year.
The sunflower is the grim reaper, the harbinger of the end of care-free days spent at a lake — with myself, my mom, or my niece.
Let us count the deaths of the other flowers, between Irises and Sunflowers
Irises.
Poppies. Bright orange, pale pink.
Daises.
Lavendar.
Any small, yellow ones.
Roses.
Purple sweet peas.
Snap dragons.
Sunflowers.
boing!
Beauty. Marching to death.
It is advantageous to be this grim in my head — to feel the loss from the start, head-on. Then I can enjoy the rest of the summer without worrying about saying goodbye.
I’ve done it.
I do feel more at home in the world with this mindset. We’re all gonna go. Might as well expect it.
It’s a funny thing, you can’t blame a flower for dying.
But, I tried at the beginning of the summer. When the irises died early, I was like, “You guys . . . come on!”
That’s when I knew I had to make a shift. If I was gonna enjoy the rest of summer.
Or my life.
Here’s the poem I put on Kevin’s card.
The Way It Is
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
By Willam Stafford
