The Half Life of a Bouquet

The Half-Life of a Bouquet

Andrew Stager

28.03.2019
Meilen, Switzerland

Have you noticed, son,
how the plastic bouquet you bought—
its price tag still looped around
a sprig of baby’s breath
grown in a Chinese factory—
has sat tall and proud
atop the piano?

From there it has watched
a vase of tulips fail
to make your mother forget
a forgotten anniversary.

Did you happen to see
your bouquet bloom with Schadenfreude
as the roses I brought her
tripped and fell, petals falling
everywhere but on her bed,
or on her heart?

My boy, your curious choice
has not withered
like the spray of lillies
that briefly sprinkled sparkle
on a forgettable dinner party
only to be tossed two days later
with the leftover lasagna.

And still it sits
in its waterless vase
and, along with dust and pollen,
your plastic gift
gathers and replays the memory
of you—unable to tell
the living from the dead—
choosing in fresh-cut flowers’ stead
a gesture with the half-life
of a hundred thousand
corsages, nosegays, tussie-mussies,
I’m sorrys, and just-becauses.

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Andrew Stager
Poet & Pastor

Photography by Janeca Cua