I was wandering the aisles of this beautiful nursery trying to find flowers for the ceremony. Centers for the tables specifically.
Are these orchids to tall? Will they match the room? Didn’t she hate roses? What about tulips? What about a mix of flowers?
I felt like I was on a spinning wheel with endless options that were out of focus and making me dizzy. I had adopted this “tough I know how to plan my mother’s funeral demeanor to kick off the experience.” This would be perfect and she would love it. But then came the endless flower options. These type of details exhaust me. I would roll my eyes internally when my mom would obsess on table arrangements. I had never in my life stressed on flowers. I had never plan a big party on my own. I had never understood what it felt like to care so deeply about every detail.
“How the fuck is she dead?! This isn’t real. How am I only understanding the importance of freaking center arrangements now? I don’t want to plan this!! Maybe if I do a good job it will turn into her birthday party? This should be her birthday not her fucking funeral.”
Thanks to three wonderful women, I didn’t give up in the flower store. They helped me settle on pink roses. Roses in pots so that they wouldn’t die. Pink roses. That I loved. I was worried she wouldn’t like them. She didn’t like red roses. What if these were wrong? Well, I don’t know what she thought but my grandma planted the roses in my front yard. Almost two years later and they keep coming back. I secretly talk to the roses sometimes. I named them Mom. I miss saying mom. I can’t ever say that to a human. But it just fits with these roses.