Like the note that fell out of the apron that Jackie Campbell gave to me to use in a quilt, this pressed flower turned up on the floor of my studio. A violet. I’m assuming it came from one of the bunches of hankies that I was going through today to make some scarves. The first time I saw it on the floor I thought it was a scrap of fabric and ignored it. But then, there it was again, right in front of me as I arranged hankies to make a scarf. This time I picked it up and realizing it was a flower, opened the petals to find a small yellow dot of pollen.
Had someone pressed it then placed in a folded hankie for safe keeping? Will I find a hankie with a stain on it in the shape of the violet? The meaning of the violet spans from innocence to fortune to an early death. I think of violets as the mischievous flowers that grow wild in the grass daring me not to pick them before running over them with the lawn mower. I always do pick them, they make such a pretty bouquet. I think of Prue Sarn, from Mary Webb’s Precoius Bane, bringing violets to the market to sell. I think of the one thing I got from my grandmother’s house after she died, a chipped plate with violets on it.
There’s an aloneness about the violet. Its romance is in unrequited love, the loss of love, or the absence of love. But it’s also a flower that endures and remembers. It’s ancient and familiar. A flower worth saving, pressing and drying and placing in a hankie to keep.