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.