After the Bloom

At the start of each month, I make my way down the familiar roads of Harvard Square to the glass windows of Brattle Square Florist. It has become a ritual of sorts ever since my grandmother died, an attempt to fill the gaps of sadness in my life with the vibrant oranges of nasturtiums and the subtle pinks of freckled lilies.

Lucky to grow up just a short walk from my local florist, I have been going to a flower shop for as long as I can remember, and continuing this tradition in college only felt right. As soon as I enter the store, I am met with the comforting, sweet scent of the flowers and the memories the place has held for me. Stephen Zedros, the florist who has watched me grow up, greets me with his usual cheerfulness and a hug as I ask for my usual $10 bouquet. No matter what kind of day it is, Stephen always curates the perfect arrangement, swiftly picking between the seasonal flowers and bringing them together into a beautiful bunch wrapped in brown packaging. Something about the ritual has become therapeutic and almost instinctual—no matter where I am or whatever mood I’m in, I can rely on the habitual comfort of returning to Stephen’s store and leaving with a little more brightness than I arrived with.

Cut flowers have always held a presence in my life; the kitchen of my childhood home was usually filled with them. My mom and sister have always hated having flowers because, in their eyes, the effort of maintaining them outweighed their beauty. Despite this, my dad has always loved flowers of all types and colors. He taught me how to cut the stems at an angle so the plant’s pores and stomata can absorb water properly and how to care for the plants so their freshness lasts longer. In learning to love and tend to these flowers, he taught me to become a caregiver—to value the blooming states of these living things and cherish them at every stage.

I inherited his love for flowers partially because there is something so lovely about how flowers serve no functional purpose—how they are simply meant to be pretty and sit around as an indicator that someone thought of you, went to the store, and picked out a bunch because they love you. Each time I pass by the tulips in my kitchen or the roses on my dorm room desk, I am reminded of how someone went out of their way just to bring a smile to my face. 

Weeks after they have turned brown from sitting in their respective corners, I somehow can’t bear the idea of throwing them out. We tend to love flowers only in their most fleeting state, at the height of their bloom, only to discard them as soon as that beauty begins to fade. To me, flowers should be appreciated for more than just their brief moments of brilliance. When the flowers have decayed, slouched at the edges of their vases, I dry and press each petal from the bunch, hanging them from our kitchen light to preserve the memory each one gave me. My kitchen has become a makeshift graveyard for the skeletons of wilted flowers, the ghosts of those who love me, and the versions of myself I’ve been when I received those petals.

Each time I revisit Stephen on Brattle Street, I am reminded of the role that flowers have had at different times in my life. I am reminded of two years ago, when I couldn’t bear to visit Stephen’s shop to pick out white flowers for my grandmother’s grave. I am reminded of how I hope never to have to buy white flowers again or think of flowers as a sign of loss. I think of the flowers that have been with me for every milestone: the ones I receive from my best friend every birthday; the Valentine’s flowers from ex-boyfriends; the yellow floral corsage I wore at prom; and the flowers my father brings home for every small occasion as an excuse to celebrate. 

When I first started buying flowers each month, I used the occasion as a tally of how many months it had been since my grandmother’s passing. This month, the anniversary of her death came and went without me remembering, and I feel guilty for having forgotten the day that remains so important to me. In the excitement of spring break, Harvard College Housing Day, and the warmer weather, I had forgotten to grieve and make time for the bittersweetness of the day. Somehow, many bouquets later, I was able to hold onto my grandmother’s memory while still allowing myself to live my life unconsumed by sadness.

This week, it is uncharacteristically sunny when I go for my monthly flower walk to Brattle Square Florists. Stephen tells me that peonies, my dad’s favorite, are back in season as he picks out a bunch of them for me to admire. He hands me an extra orange rose as he wraps my bouquet in a brown paper bundle. And even if it’s just a small gesture, I leave Brattle Square each time feeling like flowers are not just flowers—they are excuses to find beauty in the simple things. 

Audrey Wu ’29 (audreywu@college.harvard.edu) is looking forward to May flowers.