Petunia's Flowers

Everything about it feels odd: The dirt-stained leather gloves that are much too big for her, and crease in all the wrong places; the sound of the watering can’s belly filling, its metallic walls wailing in their freezing rigidity; the stench of dirt and something else – it’s a deep, low smell: a bit like mold, but not as distinctive; or maybe boiled cabbage, but more subtle.

Petunia begins to water the plants. There’s an underlying anxiety to everything she does: Is it too much water? Too little? But what if it rains later? And what about the temperature? Can I kill the flowers if the water’s too cold? The cruelty of her act suddenly strikes her: she’s quenching their thirst, before she cuts them. She gives up, sets the sprinkling can aside. What does it matter anyways.

Petunia hates gardening. Has hated it since she was a child. Her mother was a florist and had condemned her identity to be forever tied with what she considers the kitsch and the superfluous. She hates petunias and finds flowers in general to be ephemeral and unnecessary. These are two attributes that blatantly defy that which she deems most worthy in life: a legacy, resilient and abiding, useful. Her vision somewhat changed when she met Clement. He was all those things. A visionary, self-made and self-sufficient. He was a doer; he was a leader. He inspired people into action, and turned actions into things: projects, events, material objects. He created, he constructed, he adapted, he criticized and did differently. She fell in love.

Early into their relationship it stunned her to discover his love of gardening. It was the activity he turned to when he needed clarity, perspective.

-         “Why waste your time tending to something so fragile, so unnecessary?”

-         “If you’re saying beauty is unnecessary, I really don’t understand your argument. And do you really believe it’s more useful to care for what is already strong and self-sustaining, instead of helping what is weak?”

-         “Yes, but there are many kinds of beauty. And I think it’s futile to help something weak if it’ll stay that way, no matter what you do.” - She had objected. Clement hadn’t said anything, he’d just smiled at her in a way that she hadn’t quite understood.

-         “What?” – his silence weighed on her.  

-         “Nothing. I just think there are also many kinds of strength.”

Now she’s cutting flowers, the ones he planted in their garden. She wonders how long they’ll survive. Will they die quicker if I try to take care of them? She cuts a big rose. It looks perfectly symmetric to her, the kind you’d see tattooed on someone’s arm. Not someone: a man, one that scares you enough for you to become conscious of how you act around him.

-         “She could’ve at least called me Rose, or Rosa. But Petunia? Petunia’s what you expect to see stamped all over the couch of some obese sixty-year old woman in the English countryside, who’s got tea-stained teeth and is named Tilly. It’s just horrendous!”

Clement laughed. He was the only one who called her by her full name. Everyone else just called her “tune”. Somehow, her name didn't bother her when she heard it through his voice.

She cuts one last rose, places it in her basket. She tries to invoke her mother. Are those enough? Do they go together nicely? It’s a mix of Clement’s favorite kinds. She tries to visualize the bouquet, the one she’ll place on his coffin. It’s missing one last touch. She cuts a single petunia – white, with purple veins that lead to a scarlet heart -, and places it amidst the rest.