I Give ‘Flowers For The Living’ To Show My Love

When I was a girl, my friend Steph’s mother, Edie, an admired artist and calligrapher, drilled this into us: “If you have something nice to say to someone, say it now. Don’t wait, because one never knows what tomorrow may bring, and it may be too late.” She referred to this as “flowers for the living.” The thought of bouquets falling from my lips was magical, but the words too late felt overly dramatic — bordering on scary — and inflamed my already searing fear of death.

Now, years later and with more wisdom, I understand what she was saying to us: Avoid the regret of unspoken sentiments. Don’t wait until someone dies to express your esteem. Dish it out in real time.

Edie’s words echo in my ears, impelling me to start my own personal admiration campaign. I will make every effort to voice my veneration and spread love to the living, one well-tended bloom at a time.

I start with Helen and James Ella, the two most venerated women in my life. I invite them for lunch on a chilly spring day thinking, Now is the time. We cluster together on high stools, a Berkeley-style deli feast set out before us. There’s steaming stuffed cabbage, turkey sandwiches with coleslaw, dill pickles, chicken soup with matzo balls. James Ella cuts her balls into bite-size pieces, wading her spoon through warm broth. “Your mother used to make this. It’s my favorite.”

Helen, age 95, and James Ella, age 97, both live independently in their homes. Since my mother’s death in 2011, they have role-modeled aging for me, each in their own way, but I have benefited from their fierce intelligence and wise beauty since I was a girl. Helen taught me to turn my worry into prayer when I was a young mother. James Ella took me in when my first marriage combusted.

“I’ve been thinking about admiration lately,” I say, wiping my hands on a napkin. “How we wait until people die to say nice things about them.”

“That’s right,” James Ella testifies, as if we are in church. Her brown eyes brighten, tassels of white hair peeking out from a headscarf. Helen nods, her stylish straw hat bobbing up and down.

Not surprisingly, death is a common topic of conversation when we are together. I have asked them both about their preferences for how they’ll be celebrated when they’re gone. “Is there anything special you want at your memorial?” I inquire. Helen wants someone to sing “Deep River,” a song that left an…