There are some days when I think I would just like someone to send me a bouquet of flowers.
Or lilies. Though in reality I am not truly that picky.
With little sprigs of baby’s breath peeking out shyly around the edges.
I would like it to take me by surprise, to leave me breathless in a way that erases the trials of the day, at least for a moment. A reminder that my burdens are not completely my own; they are shared, and thus not quite so heavy.
(It would work especially well if it were a day when I was feeling rather blue, stooping to that kind of selfish self-pity that seems reasonable only when Monday and Tuesday have fallen short of expectations).
But then I remember that I work among plants, that I can go get myself flowers anytime I damn well please. That I in no way need to wait for someone else to remember me.
And that’s an incredibly powerful thing.