Hyacinth (For Laura)
On February 18, my friend Barbara gave me a belated birthday gift of a white hyacinth, the bulb resting in the opening of a vase and the roots dangling as delicate white threads in the water. The main stem was close to bursting into the full glory of its fireworks blossoms. Sure enough, when we put it on our table in the sunshine, the blooms popped open, one after another, until it was a fragrant mass on a slender stem. Nature’s cotton candy.
A white hyacinth symbolizes loveliness or prayers for a loved one. The way the bulb was balanced couldn’t sustain the weight of the loveliness and so, in a matter of minutes, the stem collapsed over to the side where it laid its heavy head to rest. As the hyacinth swooned, like Ophelia in the reality she couldn’t withstand, I got the phone call from my brother. My sister had ended her life. Prayers for a loved one.
A white hyacinth symbolizes loveliness or prayers for a loved one.
Writing this may be hard; nothing is harder than living it. Life has no story-line, no answers. It’s always just a guess we choose to believe. As a storyteller, I want, no, I need an ending I understand. I need to know why she did this. She was ill, the diagnosis probably bone cancer in her spine, the physical pain she contended with was unimaginable. A good day, for her, unrolled as merely “agony.” She didn’t have adequate insurance to get a timely appointment with an oncologist; they put her on a waiting list. The assisted living she required was unavailable because what insurance she had didn’t cover the costs. Where does mercy go when everything is no more than a line item billing code?
She also suffered deeply on an emotional plane. She didn’t have the tools to manage that either. I know all this as “the reason,” but still, I want her to explain it to me, why that day, why that hour, why that choice? The truth: Living is so hard that her reasons will forever be a mystery to me. They were probably a mystery to her as well. She swooned so that she could rest the weight of her being on the nearest comfort she could find. All I can offer her now is the mercy not to judge her, not to make up fairy tale reasons for ending a life as complex and challenging as any other.
She wanted no funeral, no obituary, only to be scattered to the wind and “forgotten.” We saw to all her wishes, but I refuse her the last one. I will not forget her. Every February 18, I will find a white hyacinth, bring it home, and watch it bloom. I will remember everything I can about Laura and our childhood together, one flash of time for each little flower, and then I’ll write her a letter.
When the hyacinth can no longer hold itself up, I will save the bulb for planting and burn the letter to scatter its ashes to the wind. That way she can read it. I hope she sees my ritual and can comprehend my meaning, finally believing the words that never made a difference while she was among us: We love you. We wish you could have stayed.
Writing Exercise
Write a letter to a lost person or thing that held the status of beloved in your life. Ask what you want to ask. Grief is about what we the grieving feel, not about what are lost loves feel or felt. That we have no way to know. When you finish your letter, you’ll instinctively sense the next right step for you. When you complete that step, write for yourself what you did and how you now feel. This process will be useful in writing characters, people who exist independently of you. It might help in other ways.