Pushing up daisies.

From my fall garden.

Pushing up daisies:  Euphemism for dead. Syn:  Six feet under.

I took this photo of my backyard daisies in October, I think.  Every time I look at it the expression pushing up daisies comes to mind.  I’m not sure why.  But I have finally decided to take it on as an analogy for my divorce.  Let’s face it.  My marriage is definitely six feet under.  Dead.  Finished. 

I have always loved daisies.  When I was a little girl I would walk over the hill to my Maw’s house and I picked wild daisies on the way.  “He loves me, he loves me not.”  And daisy chains.  And daisy crowns.  What fun my sister and I had collecting them.

When D and I got married I chose daisies for my bridal bouquet.  They were big, beautiful versions of my little childhood flowers.  Wild ones are smaller than the cultivated ones we get from a florist.  When D and I were leaving for our honeymoon his mother asked me if she could keep the bouquet.  She had read about preserving flowers and wanted to preserve it for me.  I thought that was very sweet of her.  Alas, when we got home a week later she informed me that the preservation project was a disaster and I was left without even one daisy to press in my favorite book.  It’s a good thing I’m not overly sentimental about that sort of thing.  But I did feel a little sad about it.  I knew my new mother-in-law wasn’t real crazy about her son marrying a woman with three daughters so I have to admit that I wondered if she did it on purpose.  Fortunately I didn’t dwell on that notion.  And I don’t think that was the case.

OK.  So the marriage is pushing up daisies.  But I’m not.  I’m very much alive and I still love daisies.  I think that says something about my optimistic nature.  And today I’m glad for the good times we had together.  I’m letting my backyard daisies remind me of those times.


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