Lavender (Purnhagen)

Maybe it was because I had not entered a store in over a month, but the floral department at Heinen’s surprised me. Of all the things that have altered since the official lock-down began, it simply didn’t occur to me that floral arrangements would be one of them.  

I wasn’t at Heinen’s for flowers, though. We needed groceries. It had been weeks since I had turned over the engine in my car, so, confident that I was running an essential errand, I drove to our local store. The normally crowded parking lot was only half full, and even the cars seemed to observe social distancing, parked a space apart. A blue surgical mask sat tucked inside my purse. I spent a minute observing people as they left the building. The first two were not wearing masks, and I wondered if putting one on was an overreaction. Was it really required? I have never worn a medical mask, never slipped the white bands over my ears and felt it press against my nose, but I knew it would be uncomfortable. 

More people left the store, all wearing masks. Some were like mine, but most were homemade. A woman walking into the store wore one made of cloth decorated with a cheery pattern of daisies. I zipped my purse shut and put on the mask. Hurrying across the parking lot, I had to adjust it around my mouth. 

Inside the store entrance, a woman wearing a clear plastic face shield stood guard near the carts, armed with anti-bacterial wipes. I waited for the person in front of me to dig a shopping list out of her purse. When I estimated that she was safely out of range, I grabbed a cart and, fighting the urge to rush ahead, kept pace behind her. I ran through my list of groceries, determined to shop quickly and efficiently. Fruit, salmon, Clorox wipes, bread. Maybe a small purple hyacinth. I buy one every Spring to place on the kitchen windowsill. For me, that particular flower is the scent of spring. And even though it snowed recently, I decided that I very much wanted my annual reminder of the season.

What I found was a stripped-down version of what I was used to. Half a dozen white and pink hyacinths lined a shelf, their tall, sleepy blooms drooping to one side. No purple, and that’s what I really wanted, although I’m not entirely sure why. It seems that the older I get, the more I cling to strange loyalties. An employee pushed a cart over. On it, a flat of lavender plants sat nestled in a cardboard box. 

Last spring, I flew to New Mexico for my niece’s high school graduation. My family enjoyed a celebratory lunch at Los Poblanos, an organic lavender farm. Peacocks roamed the grounds as we toured fields filled with round, fragrant bushes. Later, I bought lotion made on site. The bottle sits on my night stand. I like lavender, but it reminds me of somewhere else, a brief visit. It’s not spring in Ohio. It’s not mine.

I spent the rest of my shopping trip avoiding aisles with another person present. I was acutely aware of the mask and its slightly plastic smell. What made it uncomfortable was the heat that built within it. Every so often, I pulled it away from my face, just for a second, and felt the relief of sharp air.

My grocery list was not complete—there were no Clorox wipes—but I wanted to leave. Noting the long, patiently spaced lines at checkout, I decided to head back to floral. It had been too long since I bought flowers. The windowsill was currently occupied by a small poinsettia stubbornly clinging to its Christmas roots. Every few days, I watered it with admiration. 

The hyacinths in floral still sagged and roses have never been my thing. I looked again at the lavender plants, wrapped in crinkly pastel paper and sprouting a few buds. I couldn’t smell them through the mask, and I didn’t dare try. I knew what they smelled like—someone else’s celebration of spring, the lotion I rubbed onto my feet before bed. 

At the checkout counter, the cashier confessed that she was still getting used to wearing the required face shield. “But it’s for the best,” she said. I agreed and began bagging my groceries. I asked her how it’d been lately, and she told me that each week they run out of one or two “big” things and they absolutely cannot keep yeast in stock. I loved the image of people in their kitchens, experimenting with recipes, filling their house with the warm scent of baking bread. Maybe they will one day look back, and it won’t be the suffocating masks or the emaciated store shelves that they remember. Maybe they will have memories of fresh bread, the art of kneading a loaf. 

I collected my change, thanked the cashier, and pushed my cart to the doors. I waited my turn to exit. As I walked to my car, I pulled my mask down and took deep breaths of the outside air. In my hands, I held a lavender plant.

There is a place for it—next to a small, determined poinsettia-- on my windowsill.

Mara Purnhagen is the author of four young adult novels: Tagged, Past Midnight, One Hundred Candles, and Beyond the Grave, as well as two novellas and numerous short stories. She lives in Chagrin Falls with her husband, their four sons, and two cats.