Given sufficient provenance, the memory of a plant can hold a place in our affections just as the memory of an old love affair. In fact, such floral memories are perhaps sweeter, for they do not carry the attached nonsense of end-of-the-line supernovas or unresolved conversations – the bitter that always taints the sweet. They just are. Pure sensual memory.
My love affair with a common Shasta Daisy began sixteen years ago when my husband and I moved back to the United States with a two-year-old in tow, and began making a new life for ourselves on the East coast. We were West coast transplants originally, and had spent the last four years in England; but the blend of a green, pastoral English landscape with American gas prices and friendly neighbors went a long way towards making up for the loss of a pub culture and smooth amber ale in 20 oz pints. So did the acquisition of a real garden.
To rent a house with a small yard in our late twenties felt ridiculously luxurious after years making the most out of window boxes and patio pots; and with the onset of an East-coast spring filled with reddening foliage, flowering trees and greens in every imaginable shade of ‘lush,’ we lived like kings. To feel true appreciation for something is to know it’s absence.