Day of the Dead

Written by Kristy Athens

at The Gorge White House

In order to walk the wide lanes and admire the riot of color in the dahlia field, one must tread upon the deadheads. Unceremoniously cut and tossed onto the ground, the spent flowers slowly crisp as the sun drains them, first of moisture and then of color. They lie in various states of decay—the most recently deceased giving forth their final effort, dehydrated hues that have intensified into macabre orange-pinks and black-purples. The older stems have forgotten what it meant to be fresh, lying disheveled and brown like discarded, dirty lace. While the bees frolic and push themselves unabashedly into the soft, rich petals of the living blooms, flies visit the dead ones.

The lane has a festive quality, as if a parade recently passed through. A flowery Mardi Gras. A floral funerary procession. Petal confetti is strewn on the ground in patches of color that reflect the living plants looming above them: pink here, then orange, then yellow, burgundy, peach, red.

The wind gently tosses the living flowers, tall and unencumbered on their stems. They seem unaware of the absence of their predecessors, and unaffected by the fact that they’re next. Do not ask of what the parade is made; it is made of thee.