Growing Anyway

Gypsophila paniculata, commonly known as baby’s breath, grows in harsh environments, among sand and stony fixtures. In the world of floristry, it often finds its place as a bed of contrast for other brighter and more elegant flowers. In some places in North America, it’s identified as an invasive species, toxic to surrounding plants and even some animals. It’s my favorite flower, I think. I use it every Sunday.

           She and I fought so much over the course of our relationship that many people wondered why we were together at all. We’d fight about small things or inconveniences that simply were standing in for those larger and looming topics that neither of us were brave enough to face head on. The thing about our fights, though, is that they never lasted very long. They might have been explosive and frequent, but they were short. Whenever our words drifted too close to our underlying thoughts, we both shied away. That’s how it was for two years.

           We didn’t last, in the end. I’d like to say it was mutual, and I suppose it was, but mutual in the sense that we could no longer stand each other and not in some amicable kind of way. Five years later, I know I could have done better and I know I was often too harsh on her. I’ve also grown to recognize the things that weren’t fair to me; it’s a slippery slope claiming all of the things you think your ex did wrong, but I have this feeling if we were to talk now, she’d agree. We won’t talk again, though.

           Her funeral last week was a rough affair. Her mom never liked me and although her dad was kind, he never would go against Judy. Most of our friends took her side when we split up and so seeing them again wasn’t the greatest thing in the world. I did get to see her dog Jeff Bridges again, a big St. Bernard she got a little before we started dating, but he seemed even more distraught than some of the humans there that day. The only reason I was invited was because I was arranging the flowers that were to be on her coffin.

           If you had told me, even up until the end of our relationship, that I would legitimately enjoy arranging flowers and would do it as a matter of habit every Sunday, I don’t think I would have believed you. It’s not that I have anything against the idea of arranging flowers, but rather I wouldn’t believe you because I would think myself physically incapable of being good at something like that. That’s how she was though, always convincing me to do things I would never have tried on my own.

           Over the course of our relationship, we tried seventeen separate hobbies to get into together. The worst of these hobbies had been horseback riding. I had been complaining the entire time that even if it went well, it would be too expensive to keep up. Meanwhile, her horse was either bucking her off or refusing to move. The last hobby we tried was flower arrangement. That was two months before we broke things off.

           I hated it from the get-go. I hated the smell of most of the flowers, I hated the idea that they wouldn’t even last long if we did manage to get them pretty, and I hated most that I wasn’t good at it. I’ve never had a green thumb which made me reluctant to try in the first place—but it was two months before we broke up; I had been feeling that something was reaching a head, and I didn’t want to rock the boat. So, I tried with the roses and the peonies.

           During a flower arranging date we set up, I was frustrated by the fact that I could not get any of my flowers to look right together (this was a common problem for these dates). I remember remarking that every individual flower was beautiful and yet together they seemed too busy or too competitive. This seemed true if I tried two flowers together or twenty. She then lit up, ran to the next room, and brought out something I later learned was baby’s breath.

           “They just need a place to rest together,” she had said. “I read it in the book!”

           The rest of that week we arranged flowers every night. We didn’t fight a single time and that foreboding sense of disquiet faded. In fact, we mostly were quiet during these dates—both of us focused on making something good. That is until the last day of the week.

           Thinking back on it, I think the fact that our normal arguments weren’t being released sort of pent them up inside both of us so that by Sunday, those small things we’d normally argue about had changed into what they really were. We hit every topic under the sun that night. By the end of it, I don’t think either of us recognized the other.

           The thing was, I never stopped arranging flowers. During that common period after a breakup of donating this article of clothing or burning those love letters, I came across the book we had been following to teach us the basics of flower arrangement. I kept to it. I even started making time for it on Sundays.

           It was a year before her death and two after we had broken up. I was home from school for the summer and working part time for a florist in town. He paid me next to nothing, but he was such a sweet old man, so it didn’t really bother me. I was at the cash register when she walked through the door.

           “Stace,” I said after a moment of surprise. She hadn’t seen me and was in the hydrangeas. She looked up, her face taken aback with recognition. Her surprise quickly switched to something closer to anger.

           “You’re really going to call me Stace? You know how much I hate that,” she said after a moment. She began walking toward me, past the tulips by the window and closer to the roses next to the counter.

           “Sorry,” I said, “…force of habit.”

           Her expression calmed a bit. “Are you here to torment me?” she asked.

           “What do you mean?”

           “This is my favorite flower shop; I’ve been buying flowers from here since I was a kid. Look, I know you’re home for the summer, but I really don’t want to have to deal with-”

           “Stacey, I work here.” She was silent for a moment after this.

           “Jack, you hated arranging flowers, what do you mean you work here?” she eventually said.

           “Actually, I really enjoyed that last week. I sort of kept at it after things…”

           “Ended?”

           “...yeah.”

           She took a deep breath and then let out a sigh.

           “Fine,” she said. She walked past the peonies and out the door.

I received a letter about a year later, a couple days after she died. Her dad sent it. Judy had a tight grip on the guy, but I think it was more for Stacey than it was for me. She had said that she was sorry for that time at the flower shop. In truth, she had kept up the hobby as well. She ended her letter:

“We were a lot of things Jack, but I don’t know if meant for each other was one of them.  I don’t think that it was our fault, though. Like the baby’s breath that made that last week so fun, we were growing despite the circumstances. I couldn’t have had those memories without you, even if we were doomed from the start. Thanks for those. Make me a nice bouquet, will you?”