Cherry Pie Rose Buds

    
 

    My husband bought me a ginormous flower arrangement when he couldn't be here for my birthday.  It was so tall it wouldn't fit under the dining room light that hangs over the table.  He's home now and COVID-free but eleven days after my birthday, two tiny lavender rosebuds, hidden behind the hydrangea and lilies, have slowly transformed into blooming superstars.  Peaceful and delicate, looking like lavender velvet fabric carefully folded around a core or maybe more like a galaxy swirling in the heavens.  The intrigue of its swirly self pulls me in for a closeup until I take a whiff of cherry pie.  What a smell!  Did you know that in Tantrism purple light fills the room during love rituals.  I'm sure that's why my husband requested two lavender rose buds, tucked in amongst the other plants of the giant blooming bouquet. Outlasting all others. Two cherry-pie smelling lavender roses have survived twelve days because I tend to them every morning.  Snipping the ends.  Washing out the stinky water that makes me gag.  Rearranging what lives in warm, clear water.   It reminds me to tend to things daily.  Edit what is dead.  Get rid of the stink!  Trim what's left and save what's blooming.  Let what is gone, go. I embrace the giant-sized bouquet sent from São Paulo by my COIVD husband and send him love in return.  I am the bouquet as it changes with the days.