The Pain And Pleasure Of Peonies

Grandma’s flower-induced memories

“That flower Those petals The smell Are only dried up memories of love…” Himanshu Saxena

In the middle of June, I always expect a gift. And I always receive it. No, it’s not a belated mother’s day floral arrangement or an early Father’s Day one I will accept on my husband’s behalf. Our summer anniversary rarely accompanies the bestowal of anything but a grunted “good morning” and I am a winter baby. This gift is generational and sent from my shrub-loving grandma’s ghost.

Almost a decade ago bricks from my grandmother’s home were bulldozed into piles. The home my grandfather had built, and the orchard he’d planted after his return from the war, was ceding the way for newer homes for city commuters.

Before it was all cleared away I had pulled my unlit vehicle past the construction sign and into the gravel laneway. Shovel in hand I had, with the help of a full moon, dug up three peony bushes.

These bushes have moved twice and now regally claim their space below my living room windows. Every June they burst with golf ball buds and burst into frisbee-sized blooms. Staring at them, cuppa joe in hand, I am cloaked in memories, both dab of Baileys sweet and coffee grounds bitter.

Every glimpse at my grandma’s gift brings nostalgia for summers spent with her. Daylight stripping currant bushes and picking apples for the market and afternoons ogling her wise friends gossiping through games of bridge. Evenings of running a brush through her loose curls as she moaned in gratitude.

She was by no means a saccharine woman — most knew her as bitter and verbally cruel. She had an upbringing in which other people were paid to serve her. When she lost her husband young, with six children to feed, she never forgave him for refusing to purchase life insurance. She entered the profession for which her spouse had been well-known and respected — teaching. I can thank her not-very-nurturing nature for a no-nonsense attitude, thrift and work ethic in equal measures, and images of creamed peas who still make my belly yearn.

Eyeing up her abundant bushes brings pleasure and also pain. It tosses a tiny baby blanket over my heart. Momentarily smothering any grin of contentment.

My husband grew up in a small Presbyterian church smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Every Father’s Day, which was also their anniversary, they stripped bare every peony bush within a ten-kilometer radius. They stuffed the nave so full you found petals floating in your undergarments later in the day. Being part of the two-part charge we shared a minister and celebrations. Until recently we attended this food- and peony-filled fete every year.

To be honest, it was somewhat of a family reunion. Over cheese and onion sandwiches we caught up on 365 days worth of tears and triumph. I melted into friendship with Janet, one of the Sunday School teachers who had instilled in my husband much of his faith.

A few years ago, only days before the anniversary party, Janet’s beloved father became very ill and passed away. That year the peonies did double duty. I’m sure there must be stamen tucked amongst her dad’s funerary garb, rotting in tandem.

The funeral wasn’t just a final farewell to him, though.

Tucked into a pew, solid and sharp enough to instill proper posture, I wrapped my arms as tightly as I could about my gut. The physical pain was intense but I wanted so badly to be present for Janet. Deep breathing was proving detrimental as I realized my husband’s great aunt, hips pressing against mine, had messed herself.

The smell seeped into my pores and I prayed no one would hear me gagging over the hymns. Several teary-eyed souls grimaced at me when I sat down during the chorus but my legs would no longer stay perpendicular to the floor. Pain radiated from my mid-section, spiking into my legs and chest.

But mostly into my heart. I was whispering goodbye to Janet’s Dad and also to my twins.

On the day before the funeral, the ultrasound had revealed two babies. Shortly after that surprising news, the technician, a cough spreading across her reddening cheeks, uttered the words no happily pregnant woman wants to hear. “Ummmm. I think we need to have the doctor look at this and get back to you.”

The next day, sitting amongst those mourning for a man who had spread his faith for almost eighty years, I was miscarrying two personalities. Two babies who would never see the inside of this peony-laden space. Two souls who wouldn’t greet their older siblings with goos and gaas. And who would never prickle their feet with grass as they motored towards the long leafy stems of grandma’s peony legacy.

It is only for a moment that semi-sadness grips my insides — mere milliseconds in which I am paralyzed. And yet the power of these peonies is intense. Beauty in “dried-up memories of love”. Pain and pleasure.

©Jennifer J. McDougall 2021

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