Death by Peonies

 I am very fond of peonies, perhaps because I once inherited a small bush of them in Fairbanks, planted by a former owner of our house. They bloomed every year, in spite of the long and frigid winters, and when we sold the house, I wanted to bring them with me.

Instead I’ve found them in the Market,stretching down the aisles in a narrow field of gentle colors, and once a year or so, I bring some home with me. This year I was captivated by a bouquet with peonies in a richer shade of pink, brazen beside their pale counterparts. When I put them in a vase, I was delighted to find seven peonies, white, pale pink, and two of the dramatic ones. 

Since I usually have no more than two in a bouquet, the lavishness of this purchase was a surprise and I felt drenched in luxury. Glancing up from my book throughout the evening and seeing those flowers was pleasure of the best kind. 

A smell that carried a cloying sweetness was the only flaw of my night and it became stronger as the hours progressed. Someone had told me that one of the apartments was being sprayed for bedbugs and apparently the scent reached my place. I avoid almost every scent in existence so this was annoying. Taking a benadryl, I went to bed.

The scent was still in place the next morning and I was surprised that I couldn’t smell it when I went down the hallway to the garbage chute. My eyes watered and sneezing was almost as regular as breathing. I sniffed at my bouquet and found it was emitting a fragrance. Then I looked up peony allergy.

Yes. This is a thing, especially from what are called “red peonies.” What used to be the flower of choice for allergy sufferers because the blossoms contain no pollen has become something to avoid. Apparently growers have fostered the concept of scent in their peony crops. Reluctantly I put my flowers on a table outside. 

I suppose if I had to develop an allergy, peonies are the best triggers since their season is brief. So was the lifespan of the showstopping blossoms which didn’t survive a day of full sunlight. The pink and white ones are more intrepid and still look quite lovely, poised against the water and sky. 

Next year I’ll wait for the dahlias to arrive. Meanwhile I woke up with the perfect murder in mind, bouquets of bright peonies delivered to someone who hasn’t discovered that she’s allergic to them. 

I’m grateful that I can still tolerate lavender, unlike a friend who would die if placed in a field of those flowers, and I have a true understanding of the springtime misery that hits my sons every year--nature striking back.