I have always wondered how the trees felt being pushed into spring. Being forced to grow new leaves year after year. It must be tiring. An expectation of time or in my eyes change, always making decisions that the tree can’t escape. What a sad cyclical way to live.
The tree must know the leaves are short-lived, that its societal beauty will soon wither. That its leaves will fall slowly being eaten, used by the ground below. The winter will then beat what’s left, as the cold blistering nights revolt, leaving the poor tree unsheltered and meek. Some won’t make it. The violent Midwest storms pulling down, the leftovers being used as firewood. As we take and take.
Trees that live are labeled as resilient for they see another spring. Though who are we to decide what’s resilient, what deserves such a title as maybe the fallen tree chose to fall. It’s funny, this idea, as I see great honor in that choice.
Outside the windows of my studio, the cherry blossom tree is starting to bloom. It’s always quite stunning how resilient they are.
* * *
Spring leaves little choice for what I do with my time. All the little girls need a new easter dress, as one can never show up to God’s home without a new way to show your devotion; the neighborhood competing in a silent battle of how their family’s easter dresses show the strength of their faith. This sends all the needy, plastic mothers to me. They always have so many wants and so much tulle. I do wonder if the little girls ever enjoy my creations or if they fake it to appease their mothers.
My sewing studio is full of flowerful fabrics. A wall of little embroidered sunflowers and tulips. Baby blues and a soft dessert pink seems popular this year. It’s sad to me the lack of roses in the spring time. Red, yellow, firebird orange, the flower is quite diverse. I seem to be the only one to want them.
I already have two orders of the tulip fabric. One for a curly, bouncy little girl no more than three. The green of the stems will go wonderful with her strawberry hair. The mother seemed nervous, at first. She was unsure what tulle to pick, how the bodice should be shaped, the neckline being too low. We ended up going with a favorite: a cupped sleeved bodice, a light tulle skirt to make a simple dress completed with a crème peter pan collar. The measurements were so small.
The second order was for a young school girl, the youngest of three boys. Her mother comes in quite frequently so I had her measurements on file. Though the skirt must be two inches longer as she grew this past winter. Her mother seemed so proud. I’ll make her a beautiful pink dress, with little simple wildflowers embroidered throughout the waistline. Oh, how I wish one would let me do simple roses. Maybe I’ll hide one.
***
My work desk is so cluttered. More orders came in this week, as easter is a week away. No roses on the list of flowers. I wish I had someone to make roses for.
My little rose, oh how beautifully vibrant you were. I wanted yellow, a sign of friendship. But you gave me red. Red roxses for my little rose. I wish I could be more creative.
Ronald brought me a cutting of cherry blossoms. He placed them in my vase from my mother’s estate. It has bubblegum pink little dots on the porcelain, matching the blossoms.
How sad I was, “Did you pull them from the tree? She worked so hard to make them. Oh, and to help them bloom, all her hard work!”
Ronald gave me a somber look, “No dear, they fell due to the winds last night. You must have heard as you came to bed late. The flowers would have gone to waste if it wasn’t for your mother’s vase. We can rescue them together. You mustn’t worry about the tree missing them, it would want you to take care of it.”
My Ronald always knows the right things to say.
***
So many dresses, so little time. The blossoms in the vase seem sad as I ignore my own project for others. Tulip dress, sunflower, blue with tulle, pink with an A-line skirt. Dress after dress.
Fabric scraps, what a waste.
Late at night, after Ronald is in bed I pull out my project. Three beautiful dresses. Not for others. Never for others, he can’t ever know.
One is silk, the softest for the softest girl. I embroidered a little blueberry scalloped collar with tiny sky-blue lined roses. They are veined together, connected at each stem. The flowers hold each other. Oh, I wish to embrace her the same.
The second dress, I picked a deep green. Unconventional for the spring time but I saved the fabric from Christmas. A Christmas green never goes out of style, though the other mothers hide it past December. I add little roses to the sleeve, where the fabric meets the skin. I make sure to pull the thorns from the stems as Ronald pulled the thistles from the garden beds. A garden must be safe for little fingers.
The third is yellow. We painted the nursery yellow, a songbird yellow like the little ones who sing from our cherry blossom tree. The dress should match, as the tulle is cherry pink.
I hope she flew with the birds, to a better place.
***
Ronald trimmed the roses out front under the tree. I watched from my window. He cut away the dead stems, discarding them into the yard he trimmed that morning.
The bushes are new, I planted them last month. I gave them a good amount of fertilizer at the beginning. A shoebox full, to be exact. They blossomed so well thanks to my efforts. Hopefully, I won’t have to give them more. I hope she is content.
My neighbor, Ms. Sterling, says they blossomed too early. I think they came at the right time, as the tree blossomed just the same. Same as the raspberry bushes in the far corner. I love the idea of triplets. I hope they enjoy being sisters.
***
The mother came by for her daughter’s dress. She wanted me to measure again, make sure the two inches were added. I measured three, for a growing girl. The mother seemed content with an extra inch but worried about being charged more.
“The extra inch is free. A growing girl needs a lovely dress for a growing world.” I tell her. How painful it is to smile.
The mother chuckles, “Yes, yes, she never stops. Always a new inch, I swear! No complaints though as I love watching her grow.”
I watched from the window as she left. Her daughter sat in the passenger seat and seemed excited when the dress dropped in her lap. She traced the wildflowers. I wish I could see it on her.
I won’t see any of these dresses past my mannequins. All the families, the conventional ones at least, go to the same church down the road. A small white building. Its steeple fell last year in a storm, now the roof is roughly patched. The community will be holding an easter fundraiser. I guess the dresses aren’t enough to show devotion as I was told money helps. I went for the Christmas celebration, but the hole made it so cold. The people are so cold.
***
The last dress was picked up today. The mother walked in, dropped the money on my table and left. I guess she wasn’t up for any lively conversation. My studio felt empty without the spring fabrics, without the cherry blossoms. They rotted yesterday according to Ronald. But no more have fallen, so the vase will stay empty.
I pull out my dresses, my roses from my drawer. All stuck in different areas of work. Two need beading. One needs a zipper as I don’t have the right shade of buttons. Always so much to do.
“Who are those dresses for?” Ronald stands in the doorway, leaning on the frame. He must have gotten home from work.
“They are for my rose,” I measure out the zipper. “Though they still have far to go.”
“Mary, those dresses can’t be-”
“I know they are in a bad spot, again lots of work to do.” I interrupt. How I hate when he talks when I’m doing zipper work. “But won’t she love them?”
He pushes off the doorframe, brushing his fingers through his hair, “Yes honey. They are beautiful.”
