The Flowers You Left Us人去花犹香

Looking at the two stems housed in a water glass on my kitchen table， it strikes me that “in the ground” means opposite things for flowers and people. As long as a flower remains in the ground， it lives.

看着厨房餐桌上插在玻璃水瓶中的两根花茎，我突然意识到“在地里面”对花儿和人来说有截然相反的意思。花儿只要留在地里面，它就活着。

“Poppies1 are incredible，” my friend Monika， a floral designer， tells me. “Even after they’re cut they continue to move. They have so much life.”

“罂粟花可真是不可思议！”我的插花设计师朋友莫妮卡对我说，“就是剪下来，它们还能继续生长。生命力真旺盛！”

Over the next few days the petals open wider and wider until they lie flat， their shape changing from cup to bowl to plate. Then they drop， each stem shedding its costume like a dancer sliding off her skirt backstage， leaving a silky pile on the floor.

随后几天里，花开得越来越大，直到花瓣伸展平直——开始像只茶杯，继而像只碗，最后变成盘子的形状。然后，花瓣开始掉落。就像舞蹈演员在后台脱下裙子一样，每根花茎都褪去盛装，在地板上留下一堆丝绸般的花瓣。

I study the flowers in the brief time they survive after being cut. One is a shade of orange I’d normally describe as， well， poppy. The other is the color of raspberry sherbet. In the mornings， they face a different direction than the night before， their heads following the light. When I enter the kitchen to make an afternoon coffee， they have shifted again， curving in the bath of sun pouring through the window. The water holding them refracts stars.

在这两朵花离枝后尚能存活的短暂时间里，我细致地观察了它们。一朵略微带着我一般会称之为……嗯……罂粟色的那种橘色。另外一朵是冰冻树莓果子露的颜色。每到清晨，它们的朝向就与前夜的不同，花冠追随光照而移动。下午我进厨房煮咖啡时，它们的朝向又变了。沐浴着洒进窗户的阳光，它们微微弯曲，浸润它们的水折射出点点星光。

I started admiring poppies in earnest last spring， during the first weeks of the pandemic. As the death count climbed， I walked in my neighborhood and watched the world bloom. The Oriental poppies arrived first and extravagantly. I passed blossoms higher than my head growing from a tangle of leaves. Then came our state flower， the California poppy， whose petals unfurl from cigars into trumpets， growing rogue along fences and curbs. Last to bloom were the Matilijas， looking sunny and prolific， like fried eggs. On those walks I lived between two realities： death and extravagance， loss and abundance.

我从去年春天——也就是疫情最初的几周——才开始认真地欣赏罂粟花。死亡人数攀升之时，我在邻里四下漫步，看到满世界的罂粟花开。东方虞美人是最先开放的品种，开得花繁叶茂。我路过一丛比我还高的花，它们从缠成一团的枝叶中伸了出来。接着开放的是我们加利福尼亚州的州花，也就是花菱草。它的花瓣从雪茄状逐渐舒展成喇叭状，沿着篱笆和路缘肆意生长。最后开放的是裂叶密粟，金光灿灿、团团簇簇，像一个个煎鸡蛋。漫步之时，我体验到两种现实：死亡与奢华，丧失与丰裕。

Poppies， it turns out， have long symbolized death （a fact that， upon reading it， causes me to mutter， “Of course，” to the empty room）. They grew frenzied across Western Europe following the First World War2， colonizing soil freshly churned from shelling， rich in lime from rubble， fertilized from blood. In ancient Greek， Roman， and Egyptian cultures， they symbolized sleep， that lesser death， the kind the apostle Paul says precedes the time when we will all be changed. I’ve been thinking lately how unfair it is that transformation requires death.

原来罂粟花长久以来一直象征着死亡（读到这一事实，我不由地对着空荡荡的房间嘀咕了一句“千真万确”）。一战爆发后，罂粟花在西欧各地疯狂生长，占据了炮火刚刚翻弄过的土壤——这土壤富含来自瓦砾的石灰，又因鲜血浇灌而肥沃。在古希腊、罗马以及埃及文化中，罂粟花象征着睡眠，即浅层的死亡，也就是使徒保罗所说的，我们所有人被改变之前都要经历的那种死亡。我最近一直在想，要改变就得先死去，这是多么不公平的事啊。

In the days after you died， your body returned to me in vivid bursts. The slight overlap of your front teeth， your thumbnails， your collarbone， your arms so often thrown up in adulation or embrace. Your body in its entire form， flung down beside me in the sand as we summoned the nerve to plunge into the waves on weekday evenings when we’d met at the beach.

在你离去的日子里，你的身影时不时地在我眼前鲜活闪现。你稍微重叠的门牙、你拇指的指甲、你的锁骨、你在表达赞美或与人拥抱时常常高举的双臂。工作日的傍晚，我们相约海滨，鼓起勇气扎进海浪之时，你的整个身体扑倒在我身旁的沙滩上。

In those first days， I chanted a silent mantra： “My friend is dead. My friend is dead. My friend is dead.” It sounded absurd no matter how many times I repeated the words. The sentence’s subject and modifier were irreconcilable： “my friend” and “dead.” I couldn’t map the particularities of your life onto the abstraction of death.

最初那几天，我一直默默地叨念着：“我朋友死了。我朋友死了。我朋友死了。”无论我重复多少次，这句话听起来都很荒谬。主语“我朋友”和修饰语“死了”不可调和。我无法将你一生中的种种细节和死亡这个抽象的概念联系在一起。

Since then， I’ve worked to remember you in the particular： standing in my driveway holding a bundle of lavender. Plucking apple slices from a plate with thumb and index finger; the delicate way you ate. Telling a story in the dark YMCA parking lot after yoga. The gold bow in your hair on your birthday when you cooked us all chili and cornbread. The notes you scattered wherever you went. Tossing a crumpled napkin with your phone number out the window at that waiter. Twisting eucalyptus into wreaths. Cooking in your kitchen or mine. Running in the soft sand， both of us out of breath as we talked. Picking kale from a garden and ripping the leaf with your teeth. Plunging into waves and rising， shining.

从那以后，我努力记住你的点点滴滴：捧着一束薰衣草站在我家车库前的车道上；用拇指和食指从盘子里捏起一片片苹果，你的吃相一贯优雅；做完瑜伽后在基督教青年会幽暗的停车场里讲故事；你生日那天为大家做辣味玉米面包，头上戴着金色蝴蝶结；你走到哪就扔到哪的字条；将写有自己电话号码的餐巾纸揉作一团，顺着车窗扔向那个服务生小哥；你用桉树枝编花环；在你家或者我家的厨房做饭；在柔软的沙滩上边跑边谈，我们两人气喘吁吁；你从园子里拔羽衣甘蓝，再用牙齿撕咬掉叶子；一头扎进海浪之中，再次站起来的你闪闪发光。

At your memorial， your family wore crowns of blossoms. Poppies filled jars on tables， offerings to be gathered and carried home. For a short time， they brought life to my kitchen table.

在你的追悼会上，你的家人戴着花冠。桌上的罐子里插满了罂粟花，供人收拢起来各自带回家。在短短的一段时间里，它们为我的餐桌带来生机。

You left us emptied and startled， our arms full of flowers.

你的离去让我们倍感空虚、震惊不已，也让我们罂粟满怀。