Note: In the Spanish language, all nouns are either masculine or feminine. The nouns for most flowers, quite appropriately if you ask me, are of the feminine gender. Because of this, I think of all flowers as feminine, so in this entry I refer to the main subject as a, “she,” and not as an, “it,” which is the rule in the English language.
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The air conditioner is on in the bedroom. This morning, as it is always the case when the AC is on, I woke up totally lacking a sense of time. Was it three o’clock in the morning or one o’clock in the afternoon? I reached over and grabbed my Braille clock to get the intelectual knowledge of the time of day that would anchor me to my daily structure and routine. As usual, whenever the AC is on, I woke up feeling claustrophobic, depressed and too cold for my comfort. Additionally, of course, as it happens every day of my life, I woke up thoroughly exhausted.
The AC and I are not on friendly terms. Even so, this morning, as I began my prayers under my covers, I felt led to ask the LORD to forgive me for grumbling about the AC, without which sleep and health issues would be worse for me. I thought of and prayed for all the saints around the world who do not have the modern comforts that so many of us here in the States have, and that we tend to take for granted. I thought of and prayed for all those afflicted with illnesses and disabilities, both believers and unbelievers, all over the world. After I finished my morning prayers, I rushed out of the cold room to be greeted by a sweltering heat and humidity, which felt as relief for my coldness for only a few minutes before it too, turned into my enemy for the day.
As I was engaged in my daily, morning battle, David said to me, “When you are ready, go to the kitchen and say good bye to the rose. It is time for it to get a decent burial.” I was sad to hear this, yet at the same time I was so happy that we had the rose for the last three days for us to enjoy. Just at the beginning of this our first official heat wave of the season, David had rescued this lovely lady from a hot and cruel New York City sidewalk. She was large, red, fully opened, a true lady of her realm, displaying all the glory of her delicate, soft petals.
I went into the kitchen to enjoy her for the last time. I put my fingers on her petals and immediately felt their thinness and weakness, their edges sharply rolled back, all signs of the passing of her prime and the approaching of her death. I picked her up and once again ran my fingers around the soft curves of all those lovely petals that give a rose her unique shape. How does God do it? I have seen and touched so many poor imitations made by man. I must remember to make a note of asking Him to show me how He does it when I get to glory, before His presence.
Once again I brushed my lips along the rolled edges of her petals, and I brushed my tongue on her to both taste and feel her. I was taking as much time as I could, I wanted to prolong this last contact with the gorgeous lady as much as possible. Then the time came for the final stage of the contact, the final good bye. I started to ever so slightly squeeze my lovely rose. I put a little more pressure on my fingers as I kept touching her. Today, however, I felt something different, something strange, something I had never quite felt before as I performed this ritual with my flowers. I found myself feeling a hunger of some kind, a secret passion I could not define, a stronger than usual desire for satisfaction in the experience. I found myself really wanting to press upon my fingers and lips every last roll, fold and curve of my lovely lady, so I could preserve her memory for as long as I could. For a moment I wondered about these feelings, and they even scared me a little bit. Was I being perhaps too rough with my beautiful flower? No, she was pretty dead in any case, so therefore, there was nothing wrong in my executing my urgency on her. I really do not understand why I felt this way today. I do know that I must have pressed and squeezed today a little more forcefully than ever before, for, at some point, I could feel a wonderful oil on her petals and my fingers, and she gave up her sweet scent as she said farewell to me.
I heard David ask, “Do you want to keep it one more day?” “No,” I replied, “by tomorrow she will be too far gone.” The truth is that I debated wether to keep her one more day or not, but this time I simply did not want to see her in too bad a condition.
Gently, reluctantly, I put her down on the counter for David to do the honors. He always disposes of all flowers in the proper spirit; tenderly, feeling sad that they are dead, yet glad that they had graced our home and that I happily enjoyed them for a few days.
Zoraida Morrison
How sweet. Thank you for sharing.
Glad you enjoyed it, Abbie.
I am at a loss for words. I do not know whether to be sad that the beautiful lady who brought you such joy for a few days is gone, or be glad that you had her presence for a brief time and it brought you such joy. I guess I’ll go with the latter!
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