The tulips dried in a vase, bowed softly.
I sat on the edge of the chair finding them more beautiful than when I first bought them.
"Should I toss them out?" French Husband asked.
I shook my head, "They speak poetry to me."
Thankfully, French Husband gets my imagination, he nodded and gave me a gentle look.
Two weeks ago I bought them when an annual check up, a blood test came back slightly skewed.
My doctored advised a MRI to be safe.
I was anxious. Scared. Worried. I found myself asking and answering in my own conversation.
"The blood test is off..."
"But I feel fine."
"You felt fine when you had ovarian cancer."
"If I were ill I wouldn't feel this good."
"Remember last time."
My friend Cheryl reminded me, that the old fear was awaken by this scare, and that I was layering on it. "Your past is not your present, believe that."
I tried.
When we are confronted with our own mortality the depth of who we are comes to surface. The meaning of everything sits by our side, and tulips can speak.
I took confidence in the love I saw in French Husband's eyes.
Those dogs that walked along side of me (yesterday's post) spoke volumes.
I waited without layering on to the old fear. It wasn't easy.
The results were good. But the reminder was powerful.
Flowers fade. Beauty remains.
I don't want to forget that feeling of urgency, the enourmous joy of the moment in front of me, that whatever happens I want to embrace and find beauty in it.
Thankfully I can embrace a good result.