Peonies Perfect

I thought to get a picture

of her plate sized pink petals

layered in ruffles, like

a young girl’s prom dress.

Pink petals cupped like opened hands

but protective of her own heart center,

blood red, with golden stamen,

an offering of symmetry and rare perfection in the garden.

I will, I thought, composing the photo in my mind,

gain proximity by stepping gingerly in the strangled vines of sweet-pea.

I will, I thought, lean over the white picket fence

with Sony Cyber Shot in hand

and fill the frame with that flower face

in the fullness of its ripened hour.

With that same anticipation and hunger

I had sought to capture my daughter in digital

a day earlier, in her satin pink prom dress,

the color of this peony.

Her sweet eighteen year old face,

framed by soft, cascading tendrils around her eyes,

a sparkling blue, shadowed in smoky quartz,

her cheeks, blushing in bronze shimmer,

her lips plumped in coral ice.

I aimed my camera and zoomed in

to magnify her smile,

the crinkle of her eyes,

the dimple in her left cheek,

the shy tilt of her head.

Against a backdrop of woodland greenery and blooming azalea

she posed in our backyard

with the young man who presently holds her heart.

He encircled, with his hands, her waist,

lean in a corsetted top that I had tied,

threading and weaving satin ribbon through eyelets,

tugging the boned corset snug to her satisfaction,

double knotting and bowing the remaining ribbon

at the curve of her back ~

releasing it to trail down the train of her dress.

When the posing was done,

she asked to borrow my camera

hers being broken,

and this being her one and only prom night.

The limo was waiting.

No time to download and protect my treasure,

only to risk, yes or no?

All night, re-imagining the vision

that was my daughter in her peony pink satin gown

I feared she would leave the camera behind.

Drop it onto a dance floor to be trampled underfoot.

Rest it on a sink in the ladies restroom to be stolen.

I texted her cell phone, to remind ~

Take care of yourself.

Take care of my camera.

It was the next morning, when I thought to take a picture of the peony.

Spying the blossoms on the way to my car

as I paused to investigate the garden’s latest reveals.

And there, the day’s unmitigated perfection

bobbing its head in assent, as if to say, Yes, capture me now,

in digital.  I am plump for the photgraphic picking.

I will never look more lovely.

In fact, truth be told, I am dying.  So hurry.

Back into the house, for my camera

returned to me safe, after all, from prom night.

But stepping into the garden, and opening the lens cover

I discovered a flashing low battery icon.

Dead.

I thought to charge the battery

and attempt again to capture the photo

when I returned from the grocery store.

But truly, I felt the peony slipping away even then.

Even as I sprung open the silver trap door of the camera.

Even as I popped out the square, flat battery.

Even as I clicked it into place in the rechargeable unit,

and plugged the unit into the electrical outlet.

I knew, though I couldn’t have said why,

that I was on the losing side of a contract negotiation.

Hours later, reading at home,

having forgotten my intention

I heard the thunder.

Listened to a weather report of a cell

of violent storms moving into the area.

Saw the sky grow eerily dark

for the middle of the afternoon.

And then remembered.

I thought to replace the now charged battery,

run out ahead of the lightening,

sieze a visual memento

of a beauty that would not survive the wreckage of this day.

But who can say a tribute to a peony is worth the risk

of a lightening strike?

I am not brave.

Instead, I watched, through the rain-streaked window,

as golf ball sized hail stones

pummelled the peony,

her large head bowing

heavy with wind and rain.

Later, with the sky awash in a complimentary rainbow

I paid my respects.

June 2009



She Arises Like Aphrodite

She arises every morning like Aphrodite, beautiful and triumphant, from a sea of clothes strewn on the floor. You can’t imagine how gorgeous she looks, coming out of that pit of hell that is her bedroom. Her jeans shredded in all the right peek-a-boo places, hugging her hips. Pastel T-shirts cropped to reveal a few inches of her six pack abs. Dark curls cascading down her shoulders. Long, black eyelashes fringing husky eyes, and full, red lips. She is, if not a goddess, at least a princess. And I, as the Queen Mother, have nobody to blame but myself.

She is my seventeen year old daughter, Maggie. It didn’t help that when she was born, I knew she would be the period at the end of my mothering sentence. This exquisite baby girl, with chestnut hair, navy eyes, and the fattest chipmunk cheeks on the planet, was allowed to sleep in our room, at an age long past when her two brothers had been relegated to the crib in their own room. She was adored by her two aging parents and two blonde-haired brothers. She was Maggie Muffins. Miss Maggie May. Maggie the Princess Angel.

And really, I only saw faint hints of the willful iron fisted personality that was to come. When I put her in her car seat, and she screamed for the duration of a long ride at the indignity of being strapped in. And whenever I took her in the stroller, not when we were outside in the neighborhood with the sun and the birds, but the moment I entered a mall, and attempted to direct the carriage into a store and her limbs would begin to flail. At those moments, I might have looked into my crystal ball and shuddered. But what good would it have done for me to peek into the future? The deed was a fait accompli, and all I would have been able to do was live it, as I have. Better for me now to remember the glorious, sunny childhood giggle days. The dolly baby cuddle days. Especially now, when to be in her presence, is to know how the monarchy must have felt in days of old when they used taste testers to avoid being slipped stricknine. True, she doesn’t hate me on all days. Not when I am taking her to Mary Lou’s for a Girl Scout Mint Cookie iced coffee with extra whipped cream. And certainly not when we are in Victoria’s Secret and I am buying her a form fitting aqua t-shirt that says something like, Girl for Hire.

But you should see her when I ask her a question about her plans for the night. Or who she is texting on her phone when we are in the car and I am hoping to chat. And worst of all, when I tell her, what to me, is so obvious I’m sure she already knows, that her room needs to be picked up. Actually, picked up and dumped somewhere in a landfill ~ but I would settle for the clothes being folded and put away. I would be thrilled if the make-up ~eyeshadows smudged on carpet, powdered blush dusting the vanity, was put back. If the bed, with the Tommy Hilfiger comforter that matches the beach theme of the room, was ever made, I would probably buy her a car. As it is, I just keep buying her more clothes to throw on the floor.

Who can say where I crossed the line between loving indulgences and indiscriminate over-indulgences? Was it when I replaced her lost dolly baby with three of the same type? Perhaps when I drove to every McDonald’s on the south shore to collect each week’s new promotional Beanie Baby with Happy Meal? It might have been when I began to rearrange my plans with my husband on the weekends so she could go to middle school dances. More likely, it was all these things, and the hundreds of other decisions I’ve made to see her smile, or have her throw her arms around my neck and hug me, or tell me “Thanks Mom, you’re the best.” So I’ve created a princess who threatens to overthrow the Queen on any given day. You watch her stride down the hall each morning, filled with confidence and poise, knowing she is adored in her Universe, and tell me I was wrong.