It was the kind of year every flower grower dreams of—warm breezes tempered by gentle rains, skies that shifted from soft gray to brilliant blue at precisely the right moment. On our little plot of land, wedged between rolling cornfields and an aging barn painted by decades of sun and rain, blossoms unfurled in riotous color. My parents’ farm never boasted the vast, climate-controlled greenhouses of the industry titans; ours was a back-to-basics operation, where success came hand-in-hand with whatever whims the weather might choose to bestow. That year, though, the flower gods could not have been more generous.
From early spring, we watched seedlings push through the soil with an almost reckless enthusiasm. Petunias spilled over their trays like cascades of velvet; asters opened their rings of pastel cheer; delphiniums thrust skyward in spires of twilight blue. Word spread through our small county that the blooms were exceptional—Henderson and Sons, the sole remaining family-run florist in town, placed their usual weekly order without hesitation. The mom-and-pop stores to the north and east, where the grocery chains wouldn’t dare tread, made room in their shop windows for our vines of lavender larkspur and clouds of white carnations. Even when summer days stretched into high heat, those mid-afternoon clouds delivered sweet relief, the moisture inviting the blossoms to deepen their hues.
It felt almost unfair: every year before had brought its trials—drought, hailstorms, infestations of aphids. But this year was different. We couldn’t grow enough. Crème roses sold alongside bunches of white mums and blue statice, the contrast of pure ivory and cool cerulean catching the eye of every passerby. Weddings booked our entire stock of stems; funerals purchased lilies by the dozen, though always balanced by happier arrangements of daisies or daisies’ kin, as if to say that life must go on.
Then it began. First, fatalities among the older generation—Henderson Sr., stricken by the illness that crept through town like a silent fog, passed away in a hospital bed he never left. His sons tried to pick up his mantle, but the funeral home’s trucks were soon pressed into service as refrigerated storage, lines of urns and caskets growing longer behind closed doors. Still, customers clicked their heels through grief; floral packages flew off the shelves as if beauty could stave off despair.
In our own farmhouse, the same tragedy claimed my mother. She had spent every dawn between planting rows, her hands stained with soil and her laughter echoing among the petunia beds. When sickness stole her breath, she died connected to machines, eyes closed to the garden she loved. My father, stoic and resolute, carried on with an almost sacred determination. He would not let the farm die while her memory lingered in every bloom. Late into the night, he tended the plants by lantern light, whispering to them as if they were guardians of her spirit.
But the disease was relentless. One by one, it hollowed out the people we depended on. My father fell, too, and then my younger brother, taken before he’d even seen his first spring. The soil, once a source of hope, turned to dust under our feet as relatives shut down the farm at season’s end. My brother and I, mere children in the midst of calamity, were sent away to live with an aunt in Illinois. We carried with us little more than a few pressed petals and the memory of petals dancing in the breeze.
When I returned years later, the fields lay fallow. The greenhouse frames stood empty, their glass panes shattered or missing. Weeds had claimed their territory, and the barn sagged under the weight of time. The flower farm that had flourished in that one miraculous year was gone, shuttered by loss and sealed against renewal.
Yet I still remember the color. The way the morning light made the petals glow, the way the breeze carried a hint of honey and earth. Even now, when life feels uncertain, I recall that season when the world seemed to awaken in brilliant defiance of trouble. It taught me that beauty can flourish in the darkest of times, that a single perfect year of flowers can shine a light on what we stand to lose—and what we might one day regain.
It was, undoubtedly, a terrible year for so many. But for the flowers, it was the best year we ever had.
