These Iris in our front yard are about to burst open, reminding me of death, and time and of the birth of new life. Years ago, they grew near my Dad's grave in Comanche, OK, around the base of a twisted blackjack.
I go there every year on Mother's Day, planting live flowers on my mother's grave 15 miles south in Waurika. Then on the way back, I stop at Comanche, and do the same for Dad.
One year, only the stump of the tree remained, but there were still the Iris, so I dug some up and brought them back.
Last year, for some reason these Iris didn't bloom, and I missed them. And when I visited the Comanche grave, even those iris were gone.
So these are special flowers for me, because they remind me of life, death, family and the passing of years. Dad's been dead 41 years now. The iris bloom and then fade quickly compared to us, but they don't die even if there are some bad years. They remind me that our life also "is like a vapor."
I'll be glad when they bloom again, and in two weeks, I'll visit those graves again, thinking about these flowers.
"When dawn spreads its paintbrush on the plain, spilling purple... ," Songs of the Pioneers song from TV show "Wagon Train." Dawn on the mythic Santa Fe Trail, New Mexico, looking toward Raton from Cimarron. -- Clarkphoto. A curmudgeon's old-fashioned newspaper column, cross-breeding metaphors and journalism and art, for readers in 150 countries.