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.


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