I just imagine him seeing this small, beautiful flower and thinking “I need to get that for my Mama” and he picks it and holds it tight in his small, sweaty fist until he can present it proudly to the woman he loves.
I am that woman.
I want that flower to last forever, because now I know this devotion will not.
That cruel fact makes the flower a perfect vehicle to carry such sweet love; their spectacular, intense beauty is finite-we must drink in their gifts while we can.
Oh, they will come again, but they will never, ever be in the same bouquet. Someday that perfect bloom will emerge from the earth and that same boy will walk right by. He won’t notice the pretty, delicate thing in the grass, and he certainly won’t be thinking of his Mama. Yes, his love is still there and it is still as deep, but it becomes a quiet thing-sometimes too quiet.
I have friends that only had two children. There are times when I see those families and I think, “What if we stopped there?” At this stage we would have one out of the house and the other on his way out. That seems so reasonable! Jeb and I could actually spend some time together!
And then I get a flower from a sweaty hand and I am so glad. I get to do this again. I get to feel that crazy mad boy love again (times two!).
But this time the bouquet makes me cry-like it should have with my first little boy, seventeen years ago.
But I knew everything then and I know nothing now.
My life is unreasonable and I am so glad.