The Green Ribbon

As a rule, I don't like cut flowers. I prefer them alive on their stems free to spread their perfume, feed the bees, and in time to wither and drop their seeds. No matter how intricate the vase, or how polished the table, plucked flowers somehow saddened me. I still developed a habit of picking blossoms. It became her habit too.

The first time was an accident. Not the picking. I intentionally broke the stem of a wisteria, or perhaps it was a lilac bloom. The accident was in dropping it while Shadrack shied around a huge mud puddle. I looked back as I rode on and thought someone might love the color it brought to that unlikely place. It became a  cherished spring ritual that JeanAnn embraced when I took her riding. If I was distracted by some surly Shadrack moment, she would tap me on the shoulder and point. Once I had calmed my horse, we would ride right over to the bush and grab a couple of blooms. Often JeanAnn would carry them until we found the ideal spot for deposit. Until then she would periodically reach from behind to let me deeply inhale the fragrance. Sometimes it was a mud puddle, the larger the better. Nicest, when it was one of the spots that children would come to sail the crude toy boats they had made. Sometimes it was the front porch of an elderly neighbor, or the windshield of their parked car.

We both had to agree it was a place likely to please and surprise, and at an unlikely distance from any similar  growing bush. It was a way of celebrating beauty, and showing love.

JeanAnn died this winter. I held her hand for the last time on December 6th. Not many flowers bloom at this time of year, but yesterday at the pasture something caught my eye. On the handle of the old worn pitchfork, wound carefully and tied into a bow, was a bright green ribbon made of twine. A final gift, left behind on her last visit.