Give them flowers now:On grief, gratitude and gift of time

This weekend, we observe All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day — a time when cemeteries bloom with chrysanthemums and candles, and families gather to honor those who have gone before us. It is a uniquely Filipino tradition: to spend the day not in quiet mourning, but in reunion. Children run between tombstones, elders share stories over potluck lunches, and the air hums with both laughter and memory. It is grief softened by togetherness, love expressed through presence.

This season always brings reflection, and this year marks the second death anniversary of my father. Two years — and yet, at times, it feels like only yesterday. His absence still echoes in quiet moments: A song he loved, the smell of his hair pomade (I keep a stick on my vanity), his favorite movie on the TV.

This year has also been one of loss beyond my own family. My best friend passed away after a battle with cancer. The father of a close friend died following a long illness. And recently a 19-year-old — her life full of promise — was gone too soon, a painful reminder of the silent battles so many face. Different lives and different stories, but all leave behind the same lesson: That life, in all its beauty, is heartbreakingly brief.

There is a poem that goes: “Closed eyes can’t see the white roses,
Cold hands can’t hold them, you know;
Breath that is stilled cannot gather
The odors that sweet from them blow.
Death, with a peace beyond dreaming,
Its children of earth doth endow;
Life is the time we can help them,
So give them the flowers now!”

My father embodied the very phrase “Give them the flowers now.” Not just with the flowers he would bring into our home from our garden, the roses for birthdays or anniversaries, or the orchids he would have ready to welcome my mother home from a trip. He was generous with blooms of affection, expressed in his actions.  He never hesitated to give to anyone who asked, be it a stranger or a charitable cause.  

He was generous not only with gifts, but with words. He believed love should never be left unspoken. He always had something kind to say about others — compliments spoken sincerely, never sparingly. He called me at least once a week, and each call would end with him asking after my husband, children, and in-laws, always concerned about everyone’s well-being. His love was tangible — in affectionate cards written by hand every Christmas and birthday, and later when his handwriting began to falter, he would dictate his message to his secretary who would type them out.

On his milestone birthdays, our family tradition was to give speeches about him — tributes of gratitude and humor that he would receive with his trademark laugh. But one year, he turned the tables. Instead of waiting for his turn to be praised, he chose to give it. That night, he spoke about my mother — about her strength, her patience, and how much he admired her. She was so surprised; she said afterward she had never heard him speak that way about her in public. Listening to him that evening, we all thought the same thing: his words sounded like a eulogy, only she was alive to hear it.

That’s what it means to give the flowers now — to already say the things we often save for memorials and funerals, while the person can still smile and blush and hold your hand in gratitude, while our loved ones are can still hear you speak those words. Tell people what they mean to you. Send that message. Make that call. Visit, even without occasion. We often wait for birthdays, holidays, or illnesses to show our love — but the ordinary days matter most. Every “It’s good to see you” is a flower given in full bloom.

Loss teaches us that time is both generous and cruel. It gives us moments to cherish, but also takes them away without warning. We often assume we have more time. We tell ourselves there will be another day, another visit, another chance to say what we mean. But sometimes, there isn’t.

So give them the flowers now.

Don’t wait until those flowers are in the wreaths that decorate graves. So call your parents just to hear their voices. Hug your children longer than you think necessary. Tell your friends how much you treasure them. Don’t let being busy, pride, or distance steal those moments away.

As I light a candle for my father this year, I will remember the man who gave flowers freely — in vases, in cards, and in words. And I will think of the lesson he left behind: to never wait for a special occasion to say, “I love you.”

Because someday, someone will be lighting a candle for us, too. And I hope by then, we’ve already given — and received — all the flowers
we could.