I save flowers. I dry them out and I save them. I have kept a bouquet in a homemade vase for several years. The picture below was taken of our place before we had a baby, before we moved the futon from the guest bedroom (now the nursery) into the dining room (now the makeshift guest room/storage area).
The flowers and the vase are outlined in white. And at some point it moved to where the food processor sits in the picture above. (Also outlined.)
The bouquet has grown a lot since then. It grew larger each and every time Tobyjoe bought me flowers. Sometimes I’ll add one or two from a bouquet, sometimes more. It represents a timeline of moments and holidays.
For example, there was that really difficult day last year. I was very pregnant and becoming more and more immobile by the minute. I had just discovered a massive band of stretch marks all over my underbelly. I called Tobyjoe to complain about it. He asked me if I wanted anything, needed anything. What I really wanted was a cupcake, but cupcakes are what got me there in the first place, so Tobyjoe brought home flowers instead.
One might assume, given what I just wrote, that I’m really attached to said bouquet. It does cover years worth of loving memories after all. And to some degree that assumption is true, but probably not to the degree that it should be.
For starters, they are dust magnets. I haven’t ever seen any other household item gather so much dust. And they’re impossible to clean. If you touch them, they crumble. But they’re sentimental, right? And so I have held onto them because throwing them out feels like burning books, trashing art, shredding old love letters.
Plus, we’re moving soon. The idea of moving a bouquet of dried flowers doesn’t sit too well with me. I knew that once we moved, the flowers would have to be destroyed. Tobyjoe and I would have to start anew.
The point is, the flowers had a lifeline. I just had no idea how short it’d be.
Two days ago, I was in the kitchen cooking chili cheese tofu dogs for Tobyjoe and me. Murray was sitting on the back of the futon, watching me move to and from the kitchen. At some point he grew bored with me and decided it was time to play with my memories.
I’m not going to go on and on about how it happened. I think I’ll let the picture below sum up the aftermath. (Keep in mind, this was taken after I removed the still whole branches, some of which were still covered in thorns. Ouch.) The really good news is the vase I so lovingly threw while living in Washington was still in tact. The flowers weren’t as lucky.
I’m a little relieved that I don’t have to figure out a way to get rid of the memories, throw out the dried flowers. Murray took care of that for me.
Now if only he could do something about the memories my body saved from eating all those damned cupcakes.