We had all been working together on the ceremony to-do list, boys and girls, until it came time for a segregation of sorts. The boys mostly sporting scruff, continued setting up chairs, cutting wood and moving branches. We girls set out to the prairie, yet the Wisconsin soil was still uniting.
First a little hesitant, we seemed to be embarking into the unknown, or like climbing waves in an ocean deep-blue. Once we passed the part where our feet were no longer seen and confidence was gained, we dispersed ourselves amongst the field of wildflowers.
Even though we were but a short distance from the Rabbit’s hole, and even closer still was the tent with most of the boys gathered under; it was us girls alone in the prairie, with the surrounding stems, the dark toned trees in the distance, and the blue sky above. We were in a world of our own, collecting to adorn.
We had just missed the peak of the prairie, when all the flowers were in their most vivid state, yet we embraced the phase they were in, mixing coneflowers with their fallen pedals amongst strands of big blue stem, queen anne’s lace and blazing stars. It was as though we were giving them a ceremonial finale, one last chance of beauty. Though accepting of the dying flowers, we were still however picking for the sake of aesthetic, and no single stem would pass without being considered bouquet-worthy.
It was such a simple request from Emily to help her gather flowers for her bouquet. Something that we could all contribute in, and express our love and friendship with each blossom picked. As I reflect back on that afternoon I think of the poem, ‘Song of the Flower XXII’ by Khalil Gibran:
I am the lover’s gift; I am the wedding wreath;
I am the memory of a moment of happiness;
I am the last gift of the living to the dead;
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.
The event of picking flowers is more symbolic than we allowed to surface. It was the simplicity of it that was ever-so uniting.