They only bloom in late
summer, early fall (at least where I'm from), provided they have a normal
climate that year. Their season happens to fall around the lead up to my wedding
anniversary on October 5th. In fact, you might be able to find dahlias the week
before, and not the week of, depending on how the weather has changed. They are fickle like that.
I start anticipating our wedding anniversary halfway through September. It
begins as a knot in my stomach, the hint that I sometimes don't notice, until I do. Last
week, on an otherwise ordinary trip to the grocery store, however, it came in like
a flood. I was in the depths of wondering (again) how to define our relationship without you here. The happy memories of a perfect day are there, but also a
desperate longing for you to be here with me, followed by an intense sense of
loneliness that you're not.
I
remember the beauty of the vows we shared, which never cease to bring a smile to
my face, even if that smile is through tears. And then there is always the
internal triumphant snicker that death did not, in fact, part us.
I floated
listlessly around the produce department with all this running through my head,
when I glanced up and noticed a woman putting out fresh flowers. I wondered if
she would have the flower I needed today. She saw me scanning the wall with
intent and asked; "Is there something specific you're looking for?"
"You don't
happen to have any dahlias, do you? I know it's late in the season and they're
hard to find sometimes."
She smiled and reached for a nearby clipboard. "You
know, we have one box that came in this morning. And you're right, sometimes they're hard to find because they just don't like being a cut flower. I'll pop in the back and grab them."
I sat there frozen for a minute with that
thought…they just don’t like being a cut flower.
Of course they don't. They have been plucked from their familiar soil.
They are grieving.
I fell instantly more in love
with these little creatures. Looking at the bright yellow-orange bunch I picked
out of the box, I thought, "I am missing my familiar ground too."
When we
have our toughest days, there are default people we lean on, those who knew us
from the beginning, or know us most intimately. When shit hits the fan, instinct tell me to reach out, but those core people are all gone. (I can turn to a small group of trusted friends and extended family to create those connections and a safe place to share my struggles. Though essential and cherished, however, it is no replacement for lost parents and partners.)
Like a dahlia cut from the mother plant, with no
physical connection to my roots or the ground I came from, I am blooming on the outside, but inside part of me has already died. I am a living shell of who I was.
But the dahlia teaches us more than loss. As
it turns out, once cut, if you dig a little deeper, you'll find the "tuber"
(root bulb). The tuber is protected by soil that it shares with the rest of
the dahlia patch. Surrounded and nourished by past generations, they can be preserved and re-planted. The dahlia can begin again in the darkness
and push its way back to the light next season, bringing with it remnants of
those who came before.
There is eternal hope in that. And that is what I choose
to hold onto.
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