Damn Peonies

Each time I see a peony, I secretly want to hate it. They are over used, over bright, and over beautiful. Let me stress that last bit again. THEY ARE SO GOD DAMN BEAUTIFUL. Uggh. They are more perfect than a small baby unicorn. 

My mother brought up at least four bunches when she came to visit me two weeks ago. They were scattered around the house, making our old warn down wood floors look sparkly and romantic, they transformed our kitchen into something out of a Martha Stewart magazine, and made our bathroom look like a freaking garden.

Well, due to laziness, and a bit of curiosity... (okay mostly laziness) I let them dry in their multiple vases around the house. Until today. I took one look at them in their vase, expecting them to be wilted, and brown... and scowled. Of course. If there's one flower that could look even better dried than fresh is would be these gals. 

So, instead fighting it any longer, I let them just do their thing. I picked them out of the water, scattered them on that dirty floor and took some photos of them just doing their thing. Damn peonies. You got me again.

Not Your Average Flower Crown

Bits of Daily Blooms

Morning Sun

There is a stream of light that shines into our house in the morning. 

At eight sharp it is there, waiting for me to open our front door so it can make our living room brighten with its natural glow.

This morning I let it in.

I sat with my cup of coffee, drinking the bitter taste slowly, letting it bring me into a new day.

I drank it black. Sipping out of my favorite mug.

It’s a white one with small flowers that used to be my grandmother’s. 

It is really only fitting that I drink my morning coffee in one of her aged cups now. 

After all, she was the one who taught me to drink the repulsive stuff. 

But back then, I would hide the bitter taste with as much cream and sugar as I could possibly fit into the mug before sitting down with her at her rickety kitchen table. 

The sun shone into her house in the morning too.

I miss her.

I’m not one to think that people stick around after they die.

Plus, I know for a fact that my grandmother would much rather be playing cribbage and drinking sherry with my grandfather than looking after boring old me.

But mornings like this make it seem like she’s here somehow.

With this morning light, I find myself believing that she may have come to check up on her youngest granddaughter.

I see, smell, and hear her everywhere.

She is the sun that caresses my shoulders as I sit cross-legged on the warn wooden floor.

She is in every bloom that I arranged for her last night that now shine in the warm glow next to me.

She is in the crack in the white mug that holds my black coffee.

And while the rich taste and the strong smell may hold memories of her, and our time together, it’s not quite enough to drown out the fact that I miss her.

I just miss her.