Thursday, June 10, 2004

For the past week my uncle has been picking miniature bouquets of flowers from his garden and placing them on the tables in his restaurant. Deep red poppies, fragrant wild roses, and brightly impudent peonies have sprouted up all over the dining room. Old ladies smile and cannot resist touching a delicate petal and bend their softly wrinkled faces to smell the fragrance. Some even claim a chosen flower from the vase, and carry it out with them into that mysterious world in which old ladies live.

Some people have a weakness for the freshly picked flower. The flower that lives in the garden until they pick it from it's stem, then lives in haphazard arrangement in a vase or cup. These flowers are the pansy, the country rose, the lilac. The wonderful old fashioned flowers that remind us of our mothers and grandmothers and, in my case, uncles.

My weakness, however, is for the boughten flower. The flower that lives in the shop or in the sidewalk bucket, smiling cheerily and promising to make your world a happier place. Perhaps my weakness for the boughten flower comes from always having freshly picked flowers growing up, and so a different context is appealing. The flower I spend money on will fade in a few days just as the free picked flowers will. After all, a flower is a flower. Just the same, I receive more satisfaction from the flower I bought.

I need to buy a flower.


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