Nope, nobody died.
Gladiolas were on sale.
I've never seen pale green blooms like these; reminders of the delicate, Bibb lettuce I picked fresh from the clay pot on the patio last spring.
Maybe it's a generational thing or maybe it's a southern thing, but for as long as I can remember, gladiolas have always been considered 'funeral flowers', displayed only in parlors or at grave sites.
I used to want to be buried, my coffin to be spread, not with flowers but with a pall. There's something so beautifully elegant yet simple about them. I wanted Kevin to receive the pall, as I will receive a flag if he dies before I do.
Such a hard decision to make but Spoke and I've decided to be cremated. We can give the other a cheery "Good Morning, Love" and literally wrap a hug around the (Italian marble would be nice) urn. A really big hug to help you get through the day...
Happily, glads make me think only of bistros.
There is nothing like a vase packed full, sitting in the corner of a dark wood bar, its blooms multiplied by a wall of beveled mirror...
I was at a local bistro Friday night. Sat outside. It was as if we all knew we'd better soak up each of these glorious nights while we can. No schedule, no cell phones, just martinis, and ice buckets chilling bottles of Happy Hour wine as waiters offered appetizers like Shrimp Tempura and Seafood Fondue.
Bistros are good.
Life is good.
I hope the market stocks more gladiolas next week. Deep purple! Episcopal purple, I call it.
I'm just dying for some of those.
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