Daffs
When I was a rookie, green as green could get, I wouldn’t deal in cut flowers. I couldn’t stand the thought of giving someone a thing that’s doomed to flop in a vase. I’d get myself all worked up, as if I alone had the power to let a bloom live a little longer after its come-hither debut. I had all these noble speeches in my head about the integrity of the plant.
But this business of watching seasons turn — it makes you hard. You learn to look the other way.
I’ve seen a lot of flowers in my time. I’ve grown them, and I’ve cut them; I’ve given, and I’ve received. And here’s the thing: they’re all doomed in the end, whether they’re on the plant or off. Every last one.
Now that I’m older, I’m in the game for myself. I’ve got no shame left. I’ll buy myself a fistful of dormant daffodils, shove them into a bottle, and think nothing of it. You know why? I’m greedy. I want that moment when I totter downstairs for breakfast and find that they’ve sucked up all their water and burst wide open. I want that blast of yellow on my kitchen table, right where I have my tea and toast.
And I don’t care how long it lasts.
The question, see, is how I’m gonna live in the meantime. Am I gonna fret and fiddle around with crushed aspirin and weird packets of powder? Or am I gonna look those yellow bastards in the eye and feel lucky?
Every flower comes from somewhere. Every flower dies. And there will always be more. I didn’t write that law, but there it is.
That’s the truth about flowers.
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