Boutonniere's

I am the first to turn on the lights of a dark and equally cold flower shoppe. Early rising. The soft chirping of my birdies. The most gentle of alarm clocks, although I do keep time by Uncle Tony’s Bulova Grandfather clock that sits perfectly upon my Sweet Georgia Brown…my piano. My piano. A treasure…a gift given to me from my short time in the South, ironic because my ancestor, iconic Stonewall Jackson, his grave I visited, and now a piano that doesn’t resemble far from a coffin. The little time I spent as a Funeral Director at H.M. Patterson and Son’s gifted me a piano and a position back in California at the largest Funeral Home in North America.

 I grew up with birds my whole life because my Father always refused to give his only daughter the kitten she always desired. Now my Kitt, Earl Grey, sits with me on my piano bench as I play. His tail swishes like a metronome. When I play songs that don’t please him he whips me with his tail and gets up to walk away with indignance.Truly my cat!

Back to the early mornings. I wake from dream life and am thrust into my duties, my vocation of ushering the dead. They don’t bother me. It’s the living that disturbe. My surroundings are always cold and yet my body has been tempered not to feel. The joy comes after checking my decedent. I push the casket with all my strength down the long hallway, down the elevator. The casket and decadent are sometimes so heavy my boots sometimes my fragile frame can’t get any traction. I make my way to my coach.After loading is the flower shoppe. I’ve inspected the decedents favorite and complementary colours. It is my tribute to them to see them off as their best. Also, these flowers gave their life to make ours more beautiful. More death upon death.

The standing sprays of flowers surround the casket with warmth from those that loved them. Ribbons with sweet parting messages. Ribbons I will cut and return to the family. Cut… just like the life that was as well. I place lovingly the “bouts” on my Pallbearers. Pin their lapels as they gaze upon me and take my scent in wondering how and why I came to be this and I  wonder myself. The weeping widower comes to me. I have picked out an especially designed boutonniere for him. Bleu to match her dress and his spirit. I gently pin it upon his lapel as his tears run down his cheek. I take his arm and lead him thru the Chapel to say his final farewell. 

Graveside…I distribute flowers from all the sprays to everyone attending and who has the courage and love to place upon the casket. I step back respectfully and watch from a distance. My emotions are of no concern. I choose carefully the colour and flower I give to each. Judgement, all the while giving all the kindness in my own broken heart. 

The lowering of a child, a wife, a wife and husband? I remain until I know they are safe and rested, lowered. I take the remaining flowers and gently place them around their grave once everyone has left. Such responsibility. My body, mind and heart suffers.  

I pick the tiniest of boutonniere for myself because I am a petite person. My lapel always gives joy to my grieving families because I want them to see the beauty that still exists in life and the careful specifics that I take…even if it isn’t for me. Small wonders.

The flower shop is where my pretty friends create the last and solemn tributes to those I’ve never even known. I check to see they are all correct and delivered to the correct chapel and gravesites. Sunshine is the manager and a delight. How fitting a name for her position. I secretly long to open up my own flower shoppe one day with my only best friend, Jenny Penny. It would be refreshing from all of this decay.I don’t have the energy anymore. Life, Death..has drained much hope from me.

My favorite flowers of all are weeds. A Thistle and a Dandelion. Wot does that say of me? Hmmm…? I surround myself with beauty and have truly been blessed with my upbringing, but now I feel Im burning it all down. Flowers for the dead. I don’t want any. Beauty comes within death. One's presence going to…wot they choose? I’ve buried too many and now I’m admitting I fear I’m becoming numb. Callous. Closer to them than I want to be.

My Grandfather’s would beat me for being so macabre. I’m truly an accomplished artist at it. Understand tho, the final gift I give to my decedents is the gentile touch of a flower that I believe and feel would be wot they saw as a last gift of kindness.Straightening their tie, brushing their hair gently, straighting up and flying right. Giving their loved ones, the living the best. I’m a person who had the honor of seeing them for the last time. Kindness I would only wish upon all my loved ones. I don’t require nor ask it for myself and I’ve made sure of it.

I close and seal the casket gently. Lock and key. I don’t recall how I’ve come to this place in life…death? I place the casket spray of flowers delicately upon. I can’t do this anymore and after the thousands I’ve buried I don’t think all the most beautiful flowers in the world can make any of the grief dissipate.

Why, as humans, do we choose to pile death upon death? I pick the Dandelions in the Cemetery when I’m out there alone waiting for nobody to arrive to even acknowledge their own deceased. Deer pass by. My constant crow and falcon companions. Coyotes that give an acknowledging glance. I am comfortable alone. Solace.The dead keep me company, but I make sure they know their barriers. I do not allow them to follow me home. But…the small pleasures in life. Living creatures of all kinds and yet we struggle to find our own way. I’d bring home a rose from the flower shoppe for my Husband. Beautiful roses reflecting my love. Lemon Yellow, Lavender, Burnt Orange, Lustful Red, Gentile White. Now, all is lost. Just as the flowers we pick…all dies.