Recently, I came to the last page of my flower pressing book.
It was somewhat like the end of an era for me.
“I have to pick up another,” I thought when the final blossoming spine was pressed down upon.
But then I came to a realization that 2 years prior a friend had bought me the same cover with the same recycled pages.
“This is good. That was nice.”
It is funny. I remember the very first press with great clarity.
A ‘Hawaiian’ flower caught my eye at the local plant shop.
I plucked it from its stem.
But an after thought of death overcame me moments later.
“oh,” I sighed.
“Perhaps I should press it, so It will not shrivel and grey.”
And so I picked others at the place. Ones to keep the other from being lonely.
And they still exist on pages behind the first.
Existing with pigment and scent.
As I go farther away from this first memory, I realize that I do not remember where I had picked the newer presses. All I know is the mood of them. And that is satisfying enough.
Allow me to present to you bits and pieces of my flower memorial: