And here was summer’s harbinger, the peony; here was June, and yet the nights still dipped into the forties. Summer would not die on the stem as spring had, as my hopes had; so neither would its herald, not in my yard.
Peony Season
By Mary Bartels
After a bleak winter; after an unseasonably cold, and unreasonably long spring, June first finds itself with a high in the sixties. I am in the grass in my grandparents’ yard, stripping peonies of their leaves. A jar sits beside me on one side, and scissors on another; an arc of leaves and inches of stem growing around me as I prod the flowers into a Mason-jar bouquet.
Haunted by the cold months that had infiltrated my bones and mind, I had taken offense to every peony bush—which I took as the first sign of summer—whose lush, beautiful blooms drooped their browning heads. Peonies tend to have impossibly long stems, and their pink blossoms make it all the way to the dirt when they fall over. Everywhere, I saw struggling flower bushes, and vowed it would not be so here—in the commanding line of peonies that stood at attention along the white plastic fence of my grandparents’ backyard.
Before ending up crisscross in the grass, I attacked the bushes with bladed hands, hacking off the blossoms that were obviously expiring.
Deadheading: removing the dead flowers that are still sucking up nutrients and water, allowing other flowers their chance in the sun. It was a lesson I had to learn, in the coldest part of winter, how to cut off dead ends. Snap. Snip. Snap. It was becoming useful now.
The brown petals will join the brown earth, to be broken down and fed to the pink and white and green above.
It wasn’t a simple distaste towards dead flowers that spurred me; it was a deep feeling of unsettlement. All the long spring, after the hopeless winter, I’d said, “Summer will save me. Summer will come for me. Summer will come.” And here was summer’s harbinger, the peony; here was June, and yet the nights still dipped into the forties. Summer would not die on the stem as spring had, as my hopes had; so neither would its herald. Not in my yard.
I paced the bushes, almost the whole length of the yard, snipping myself an armful of the flowers. I leaned over the edge of the fence, and finally went around to the outside, where the peonies strayed outside the slats and arced, parabolic, toward the ground. These I collected liberally, as the only things that could enjoy their beauty here were the tires of our cars. The cold moisture—dew, residual rainwater didn’t so much drip on my skin as slowly saturated into it, making my hands feel cold and just-washed.
Despite my heart being full of peonies, I can admit that they are frustrating flowers. They are not hardy. They only last a few days either on the plant or in a vase; they bring in ants and shed petals as they go. That’s why the neighbors abandon them to leave their mess in the yard, instead of bringing them in and caring for them. The year so far had left me drained and weary, but conversely all the more determined at the work of peony pruning. Over-abundance is an odd thing; too much of a good thing is a strange concept—one that was inconceivable to me even a month ago but had become my daily battle. But if the peonies cannot be long-lasting, if they must be overwhelming and now, they will at least be far-reaching.
It was after gathering my armful that I sat, surrounded by the debris of trimming. The leaves peel off satisfyingly, and the flowers explode out of the Mason jar (bought in a twelve-pack at a consignment store when I discovered I would need far more vases than what we already possessed) in a round pom-pom of pink. This vase is for the mother of a childhood friend, whom I haven’t spoken to in earnest for years. Well, peonies supersede time. The petals are cool and soft as I arrange them, checking for ants and other bugs. The jar is cold against my arm; and the ground is cold against my legs.
I started the pruning adventure as sunset settled into dusk, but now it is certainly dark, and I work from the light of the back-porch and alley lights. It is cold. But it is June, and it will be warm soon. It will be okay. Summer will save me. Summer will come for me. Summer will come. It will come like its messenger: the season is short but overflowing and unmanageably beautiful. I know because the peonies tell me so.
About the Author...
Mary Bartels is a writer from Pittsburgh. She enjoys creating poetry, all kinds of fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her writing has been published in Rune Literary Magazine, is pending publication in Workhorse's Yearling poetry journal, and has been published in the award-winning literary journal, of which she is now Managing Editor, Pulp. Mary has also written and produced radio pieces for Saturday Light Brigade Radio Productions. She can be reached at marymirembebartels@gmail.com .
About the Artist...
Alexis Swenson is a Junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys working with acrylic paint, and occasionally, ink.