On my way into the grocery store yesterday,
the fancy store that's like a field trip,
I had to pass between rows of metal pails
filled with cellophane-wrapped flowers.
I frequently succumb and take home
a bunch or two, just because I love their cheery faces
and their sensual perfume.
But instead of tempting me, for some reason
they just reminded me that flowers
were one of the things
my darling "wus-band" did well.
He brought me flowers, arms full of flowers, frequently.
Not every week, but often.
Oh, of course he'd send me grand arrangements
Happy Mother's Day
I Love You
what have you.
He even sent me gorgeous arrangements
on Valentine's Day the first two or three years
after we split up.
But he knew that I love to peel the wrappers off bunches
of Gerbera daisies and sunflowers, freesias and roses,
chrysanthemums, or just about anything floral,
choose just the right vases from my stash,
trim the flower stems and arrange them.
So in the twenty-some years we were married,
he'd often come home carrying treasures,
knowing I'd be delighted by his offering.
Don't get me wrong.
He had his shortcomings.
He broke my heart too many times.
But he did flowers and romance spectacularly well.
As Martha Stewart would say,
"It's a good thing."