Last night, as the nearly full moon rose and darkness fell, we slipped outside to see the comet finally lifting above the trees. We could see it dimly above the studio roof, trailing tail a faint white wisp in the moon bright sky. We cut my hydrangeas then, my roses too, first frost in the forecast. Planted in honor of my grandmother, it makes me sad to cut them, these bounteous blue blooms that have brought me such delight this year.
It was in October, thirty-five years ago, that my grandfather died. October seven years ago that my last grandmother died, this season, holding both symbolic and personal reflections of the ancestors. And, somehow now, I stand here apologizing as I slice through these healthy stems and carry an armful of blue blooms inside to nestle in red vases. I left those flowers still in bud, in case it doesn’t frost, in case they might yet open, but frost it does, the field in morning a sparkling white sea of shining grasses and the hydrangeas dusted with a fine glittering coat.
When we return from our walk, the sun has reached the plants, and now instead of sparkling they have succumbed fully to the cold, final buds leaning over in wilted surrender. I pause by them, running my fingers over the now limp, darkened leaves, thinking about all we love and yet cannot save.
