It’s Friday and I just realized that every day this week, I’ve come home and stared at these flowers I picked up from the grocery store last weekend. Five for a bouquet. Seventy cents for a vase to put them in. So, $5.70 plus tax and the little girl in me resurfaced to stare at flowers she never got. Five-year old me smelled them and imagined the petals rising up as I inhaled, like a cartoon scene. Seven-year-old me searched for the places where petals were missing, placing imaginary petals there so each flower would be complete. At the same time nine-year-old me tried to ignore the fact that there were flowers with missing petals. While thirteen-year-old me searched for flowers with no petals missing, sixteen-year-old me put the pretty flowers toward the front. Eighteen-year-old me wondered how long they’d be this pretty. Nineteen-year-old me was sad that their beauty wouldn’t last forever and that I would have to throw them away one day. Twenty-one-year-old me wondered why they took so long to get to me. Twenty-three-year-old me wanted to know why nobody ever bought them for me. Finally on Friday, I wondered why it took so long for me to buy them for myself.
I hope you buy yourself some flowers,