Iris Remind Me
Like flounced gossips huddled around garbage cans, iris grow wild in Nashville alleys, ripe for the picking. And pick we did.
In my freshman year at Vanderbilt, my junior-year friend -- who wore no bra, French-inhaled Camels, drove an Alfa Romeo Veloce Spider Mark II, listened to Bach at the highest volume, and slept late through classes but earned high honors on her literature essays -- took me out to snip and steal the stems.
Though they lasted only briefly in our plastic cups and buckets, those iris gaudied up dreary dorm rooms with their assertive color, defiant sexuality, lingering perfume.
Today, on seeing the first purple blooms in a friend's garden, I thought of Nancy, the first liberated woman I ever knew and the first of my friends to die too young.
In my freshman year at Vanderbilt, my junior-year friend -- who wore no bra, French-inhaled Camels, drove an Alfa Romeo Veloce Spider Mark II, listened to Bach at the highest volume, and slept late through classes but earned high honors on her literature essays -- took me out to snip and steal the stems.
Though they lasted only briefly in our plastic cups and buckets, those iris gaudied up dreary dorm rooms with their assertive color, defiant sexuality, lingering perfume.
Today, on seeing the first purple blooms in a friend's garden, I thought of Nancy, the first liberated woman I ever knew and the first of my friends to die too young.
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