Freesia Power

A gnostic deconstruction of the rebirth as freesias of the dead.

Entering Trader Joe’s I saw flowers, went over to have a look, saw the freesias, $5.99, on the pricey side for Trader Joe’s. I thought of my grandmother, who grew them in her garden and used to attach them to presents or even cards. Easter cards. She’d wet a bit of paper towel and enclose it in tin foil around the base of the stems to keep the flowers fresh.

The beauty of the flowers, their fragrance, the care, the kindness. Freesia power.

I turned away from the freesias — too expensive for me — and had an attack. A pang, that stopped me in the midst of the shopping swirl. I stood, stunned, thrown into reverie. How could I do that to her? Tears came to my eyes. They come again, writing this. I loved her so much.

To not buy freesias in the name of economy was a gruesome betrayal of her whose love had kept me alive.

For what, exactly, had she shared such love with me?

I turned back to the flowers to stop the pain. I stooped and scrupulously picked out the most profitable bunch of yellow freesias, those with the most buds most liable to flower. They weren’t for me. They’re for her, in her honor.

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