Sammy and I make an annual trip to the floral shop down the
street on the day before Easter to pick up something for Anna. We always decorate
her grave for Easter, and have already placed a palm cross and added silk
irises beside the headstone.
However, the Easter Bunny doesn’t visit the cemetery and we
hate for Anna to be left out, so we leave flowers on Easter to make sure Anna
knows we miss her. And there’s something about fresh blooms that celebrates the promise of the resurrection.
Sammy is a discerning and opinionated shopper who takes the
lead on these missions. Perusing the selection of long stemmed roses in the cooler,
she quickly dismissed the peach and red and fuchsia-rimmed yellow, and picked
out the pale pink spray roses.
“How many?” the clerk asked.
“How many?” I repeated, nudging Sammy to make the decision.
“I don’t know…seven?”
“Seven?” It seemed like an unusual number.
“Seven. I don’t know how many to get, but I like the number
seven.”
The clerk burst out laughing. “I like her logic! Seven it
is.”
The clerk counted out seven sprays, added some baby’s breath
and began to wrap the flowers in cheery green tissue and cellophane. “Are you
giving these today, or would you like them in water?”
“We’re not delivering them until tomorrow, so we’ll have to
keep them in the fridge overnight.”
“I’ll put them in water.” She returned with a block of wet
foam. “Who’s the lucky person who’s getting these?”
I struggle with these kinds of questions, not because I’m
embarrassed by the answer or ashamed of our circumstances, but because I know
that my honest response will be a bucket of ice water on the conversation.
“We’re taking them to the cemetery…they’re for her little
sister.”
The clerk’s eyes dropped, but she didn’t miss a beat. “Oh,
they need ribbon—a nice pink one!” She fetched a shimmering piece of rosy
chiffon and tied it on the spray with a flourish, plumping the bow and
smoothing the ends with care.
She could have pretended that she didn’t hear my response,
or changed the subject to something less threatening, but instead she found a
quiet, compassionate way to acknowledge our grief and honor our beloved baby.
It doesn’t take much to soothe someone else’s sorrow, just a
small, tender gesture that affirms the depth of the loss.