This morning the weather completely reflected my feelings of indecisiveness and subsequent weary preoccupation.  Pretty typical weather for Vancouver, but today it strikes me as a sort of emotive reflection.  So while I was trying to sort my thoughts out, I ran some errands.  The last stop was Safeway for a prescription, and on my way through I was snagged (figuratively) by the bundle of roses on display.  Without much care for thoughts of passersby, I leaned in for a drink of the deep floral fragrance folded between those crisp, delicate petals.   Aaaaah, a moment of bliss…

That’s how I wound up with this beauty in my arms as I walked through the parking lot:


I shrugged off my impulse on the way over to the counter, but on the way out something pulled me from the grip of reservation.  I knelt by the pails of roses in the floral refrigerator and gently mused the red, white, and yellow silk until I found the perfect specimen.  As soon as I passed it delicately to the cashier, I felt a swell of warmth that continued to spread through me as I made my way back to the car.  The weight of my quandaries met this wave of happiness with the force of a tidal wave, and I found myself suppressing both a sob and a smile simultaneously.  What a weird experience – I was so happy just to carry that single piece of true joy with me that it almost served as a talisman against my inner turmoil.

First thing upon arriving home was a search for the perfect vase.  From out of our collection I pulled these two pieces:


The shorter one we’ve had for years, and the tall one came with a gorgeous bouquet given to my sister when she was in hospital.  Both of them are plain-ish, but that’s what gives them their elegance, I think.  The purity of the clean white porcelain really shows off the rose.  It reminds me of learning how the male frames his partner in a tango or a waltz.


Roses never fail to touch me somewhere beyond the reach of stress and pain.  Seeing them gives me this instant inner hug, and it’s even more amazing when the rose is given to me as a gift from a friend or someone who cares.  I’ll never understand why some girls need the limousine, the fancy dinners, the flashy jewellery and everything else, because nothing does it for me the way a graceful rose does.  I remember when all the sympathy came cascading in over the summer and everyone just wanted to know what they could do to ease our pain – my dad would thank them kindly and answer vaguely, but he usually included a polite refusal for flowers.  We had so many bouquets already, I suppose, and his allergies were definitely not appreciating our floral gallery.  Nevertheless, when the same people asked me what I’d like, I would promptly reply – regardless of my father’s proximity or how recently he’d said his bit – “please send flowers!”   😉


Roses are without a doubt my favourite.  After the funeral, I saved one of the pale pink roses from the arrangement on my sister’s casket, and when the petals began to fall off, I painstakingly pressed them in an old flower press as if they were her very last note to me.  I still have them and hope I always will.



The cool touch of a crisp silky petal

balanced so delicately atop a long earthy finger

smells of moonlight

as it blinks away the rain.



… Please send flowers.