Thanksgiving. It’s tomorrow. My co-worker called me this morning to ask if I’d be okay. “It is what it is,” I replied. “Yes, it is.” We ended our conversation with promises to talk tomorrow and I moseyed into the kitchen to tackle some cleaning.
After all the dishes were cleaned I set my sights on dusting. I enlisted the help of my favorite seven year old and we dusted every flat surface on the first level of the house. Most of that took place in the dining room but there are a few spots in the kitchen that needed my attention too. In one corner there is a radio/turntable. Atop sit some CDs and old vinyl albums. Amongst Streisand, Elton John, Sly & the Family Stone, Cure, and Fleetwood Mac is a vase of roses. Dried roses. Dead roses. Dusty roses. They are from TJ’s funeral. They are 1,040 days old (wow, that’s a lot of days!). And they are nearly impossible to dust. But I tried with all my might and with all my care to free them from dust without breaking them apart. 
And that’s when it hit me: these are DEAD. What was I doing? Was I actually trying to free these brittle flowers from their protective blanket? Yes, and it worked- sort of. A few petals fell to the ground and when I looked at them- really looked at them- it dawned on me. These flowers can’t be made beautiful again. And they are a reminder of the saddest most horrific time in my entire life. But I had kept them for 1,040 days! “Why am I trying
to clean and preserve something that’s all about TJ’s death? Only his earthly body is dead. His spirit is alive and well and he tells me this in his own special ways,” I said to myself.
So I made a decision right there. I would throw out the dry, dead, dusty roses and replace them with fresh beautiful flowers. Today. And so I did. Off to the farm that typically has fresh-cut flowers. Alas, all they had was a selection of mostly-the-same ornamental pieces made into bouquets. I wasn’t going to give up though. I stopped at the grocery store and after much sifting through, I settled on a grouping of multicolored daisies. They were fine, though not what I had hoped. Wanting to replace the dead flowers and afraid that if I didn’t get fresh ones today I might change my mind, I headed to the check-out. Right there, as I entered the lane, was a beautiful display of 1/2 dozen rose bouquets. There were so many beautiful colors to choose from. The coral ombre called to me as they are still pink enough to say “spring” but orange enough to say “autumn” and the fade of color reminded me of life, the way it moves from one thing to the next, from earthly living to spirit living.
I’ve decided that vase will always have fresh flowers residing in it. And so now when I see them sitting on the turntable I will think of TJ’s life, not his death. Out of the dust comes life. As I sit here thinking about that statement-out of dust comes life- I think about my life. I think about how someone pulls themselves out of the dry dust of tragedy and comes back to life. But I think that’s a story for a different day.
