What isn’t, all that isn’t; the people no longer alive,
their names less and less spoken, their numbers deleted, medicine bottles left
silent and untouched on tables. The dandelions unblown, the wishes not made,
taken now by the wind.
Are the trees not tired of it all, dying then living then
dying again? What was the meaning if it all? What was the purpose? The old rose
bush ceased to flower, giving it all up, not wanting this tiresome repetition
over and over again.
Life is but a moment I thought, it wasn’t the myriad moments
I had looked outside to the garden wondering whether my Peonies had bloomed
yet, it wasn’t the moment when they finally did, ravishing fuchsia blooms as
big as saucers, drooping lavish colour, seduction and delight, No.
Life wasn’t in those moments. Was life the moment I decided
to gather a few of my magnificent flowers to place on my dining table that
sunny warm June afternoon? No, no life
wasn’t that moment, life was the fleeting moment I walked to the kitchen to
fetch the scissors, full of intention, full of knowing, assertive, that this is
what I will do, I will cut a few flowers to place on the table and the room
will light up with colour and life and beauty, that very moment when I knew,
holding the hard, rigid, cold pair of scissors in my hand, unrepentant and
willing. That moment when I knew.
