The Bouquet
Red Ochre Lit (May 2011)
(Essay 8 Finite)
by gayla m. mills
I’m held captive by the flowers on the table. Adopted from the Farmer’s Market, they’re an orgy of color and scent so sensual and varied that it’s hard to believe they sprouted from soil.
When I say there are roses, pink and red, it might help you imagine a few. You know about roses, at least the ones that come tidy and eager in a group of twelve, uniform and pleasing. But these are roses of the grandma’s garden variety, imperfect and delectable, with petals so soft you want to rub them on your skin. But you wouldn’t dare, knowing how their fragile selves would simply fall away.
But the others, I don’t know their names. Each cries out in its own way, spiked or slender, sunny or verdant, noisy or whispering, cinnamon or lemon.
I had watched the gardener as she fussed over them, making selections for me. There were no other customers, and these children of hers at the end of the season faced an almost certain bad end. So she tried to save those she could, picking one here, another there, to gather in a large bouquet that would give them life for a few days more. She couldn’t stop, choosing one—oh this purple will look nice—then another—she spoke its name, though I’ve forgotten it now.
I could see that I’d have to intervene, as the bunch grew beyond what she or the old glass jar could hold.
“I’m afraid I have to go,” I said, “but I’ll truly enjoy these. How much are they?”
“Is five dollars too much?” she asked. Her hand trembled a bit.
I looked down, ashamed, then gave her ten.
For one week I could smell their scent before I entered the room. As I rounded the corner, I was caught each time as they beckoned brightly from the dining room table.
But now I sit and watch as the petals turn brown before me. I don’t know what it’ll take for me to part with them, placing them in the compost pile, where they’ll turn to black soil.
Next
Red Ochre Lit (May 2011)
(Essay 8 Finite)
by gayla m. mills
I’m held captive by the flowers on the table. Adopted from the Farmer’s Market, they’re an orgy of color and scent so sensual and varied that it’s hard to believe they sprouted from soil.
When I say there are roses, pink and red, it might help you imagine a few. You know about roses, at least the ones that come tidy and eager in a group of twelve, uniform and pleasing. But these are roses of the grandma’s garden variety, imperfect and delectable, with petals so soft you want to rub them on your skin. But you wouldn’t dare, knowing how their fragile selves would simply fall away.
But the others, I don’t know their names. Each cries out in its own way, spiked or slender, sunny or verdant, noisy or whispering, cinnamon or lemon.
I had watched the gardener as she fussed over them, making selections for me. There were no other customers, and these children of hers at the end of the season faced an almost certain bad end. So she tried to save those she could, picking one here, another there, to gather in a large bouquet that would give them life for a few days more. She couldn’t stop, choosing one—oh this purple will look nice—then another—she spoke its name, though I’ve forgotten it now.
I could see that I’d have to intervene, as the bunch grew beyond what she or the old glass jar could hold.
“I’m afraid I have to go,” I said, “but I’ll truly enjoy these. How much are they?”
“Is five dollars too much?” she asked. Her hand trembled a bit.
I looked down, ashamed, then gave her ten.
For one week I could smell their scent before I entered the room. As I rounded the corner, I was caught each time as they beckoned brightly from the dining room table.
But now I sit and watch as the petals turn brown before me. I don’t know what it’ll take for me to part with them, placing them in the compost pile, where they’ll turn to black soil.
Next