I want to say we assembled bouquets ourselves, from flowers we picked early that morning, wading thigh-high through dewy grasses in the field thick behind our home.

I want to say we clipped and carried them in big tin buckets, like Sal with the blueberries in one of my favorite children’s books.

I want to say we returned to the dining room table, and that the table was made from wood from trees she’d chopped down herself before sketching designs for this gathering place, this surface where we’d assemble flowers and family alike.

I want to say the name of the wood, but don’t know enough names of wood to tell you which it was. Something special and beautiful, to be sure.

I want to say we mostly did these things in silence, the reverent kind you read about. And that sometimes an animal, some quick movement, would catch my eyes or hers, and we’d stop, pause, freeze, so as not to frighten it.

We knew we were the intruders, on the turf of wildness not ours to tame, and that even taking the flowers was a gift requiring our gratitude, and that we’d pay back the land by tossing seeds her way as the seasons changed after the wedding.

I want to say we watched the sun come up over the hills, casting a glow over our hands that would later take hold and say yes.

I want to say the mist kissed our shoulders and the birds blessed our union.

I want to say the deer assembled near the edge of the meadow, watching us watch them, not weary but also keeping their distance — as if they, too, knew the cycle of things and that we’d not waste a single part of their bodies when it came to our own winter sustenance and survival.

I want to say there was a great cycle here, and our bouquets — so bright, stems so lovingly wrapped in ribbon the color of morning sky — were like love letters to each other and to the angels and to our guests who’d assemble in just a few hours, in sacred witness.

I want to say these things are true, because I see them. I see them through some third eye where memories of parallel experience live and hover and, sometimes, land on my forehead, just for a moment.


This was my freewrite for the Day Two prompt in my current two-week writing group. Full disclosure: I fixed a couple of typos and changed one word before posting it here, but the idea in my groups it to write and share without editing. We are so hard on ourselves and it’s my belief that we really don’t need more practice being critical of our words or beating ourselves every time we miss the bullseye (which is most of the time). That’s why the groups I lead are more about showing up and everything counts. Join me June 6-17


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