This isn’t some anti-romance rant but rather a reality check. You see, for many years (ok pretty much my entire life thus far) I held onto a notion that flowers were a gift, given to you. Maybe I’d seen too many movies or maybe my father had given my mother too many bunches of her favourite yellow roses. Whatever the reason, I waited and longed for flowers bought especially for me.
Yes there were high-school friends who bought me Gerbras (didn’t we all), family who lovingly bought me poppies (they still make me swoon) and even an ex who bought me a ‘mixed’ bouquet a few days before Valentine’s Day because they would be cheaper and cause him less hassle to purchase…but something was missing.
Like most of the humans on this planet, I love flowers. They make my heart sing in such a delicious way and let’s be honest, with the rise of apartment living it’s likely the only bit of nature we can still hold on to.
The only person I know who loves flowers more than I do is Michael, my florist.
Yes, I have a florist and I say hello to him every morning, imagining I am living in Paris and there are Disney cartoon birds following me. His name is Michael and immediately after finishing high school he opened a flower shop, he has been in the game 29 years and is one of the most humble people I have ever met – a firm fixture amongst my community to say the least.
Walking past Michael every day, his love for his little flower friends oozing from every pore, I couldn’t help but decide my own little apartment needed a touch of his magic. And in one swift transaction my poppies were off to find a new home.
I often stare at my flowers in some kind of wondrous meditation and think how much sweeter they are knowing they were bought for me, just for me, by me. Finally.
