Rose’s flowers

She stepped to the door, her hands heaped with freshly cut roses in all hues of pink, from the softest baby pink to the brightest cerise.  

The fragrance of Mother Earth permeated the room. With her face buried into the tips of the velvety petals she sniffed in the therapeutic aroma which usually never failed to make her feel better. 

She didn’t bother to iron her dress. It was one of her own creations. An A-line cut in a floral chiffon, with petit sloppy sleeves and a satin belt, which accentuated her lean waistline. Her coarse, greying hair was up in flimsy bun and she had on zero makeup.

The floral scent stabbed into her already heavy heart which cried as she held the key to open the door of her twenty-four year old flower boutique. Upon her touch a teeny tiny bell tinkled from the key chain, amplifying the weight in her heart.

Her father, who was an avid gardener, moulded her into a wikipedia of flowers. Flower names, seasons, habitat, flower care and nutrition or which was the most suitable flowers for specific occasions .... she would educate her listeners at her shop on any fine flower information like an opera song accompanied by a subtle and elegant ballet performance.

Her mother, an art teacher, taught her the skills of pottery making and acrylic painting. Her father was a science teacher who romanced his wife with garden magic. Their adoration for each other was evident in their own little yard which, as their joint hobby, they cultivated into a petit but enchanting paradise. At any time of year, the garden of Mr and Mrs Amari always blossomed with tastefully manicured trees and an assortment of seasonal plants. The burst of colour and divine energy would immediately uplift any passerby or visitor. 

They named their only daughter Rose. Rose budded into a powerhouse of creativity. A free spirit who wanted to live life in her own unique way. She chose not to go to university, much to her parent’s concern. 

She didn’t want to be stuck like her parents, doing the drudgery of paperwork until late at night, every night, rather than spending this energy in pursuing their talents further. Gardening was just their therapy from the mundane routine of teaching, marking, assessments, attending boring workshops and the cherry on the top, keeping excellent records. 

All Rose desired was to own a flower shop. The flowers would come from her very own garden, situated on the same premises (and her living quarters would be upstairs). Her flower pots would be designed and made by herself in her outdoor pottery corner. Well, not a corner, but a pottery haven in the middle of her garden, where she would be surrounded by all her plants. 

Inside her mind she saw her successful self sitting on an antique single sofa, wearing cute dresses and a natural hint of makeup (except for ravishing red lipstick), hair opened in loose curls over her shoulders, decorating her ceramic pots in pretty paints while waiting to greet customers that enter with a warm smile. 

Rose’s flower shop would have a grand glass door adorned with fresh flower garlands and ceramic chimes which would welcome every client and confer pure joy before they started their search for the perfect gift to give their loved ones. 

As a schoolgirl Rose started selling flowers to her friends at school for odd occasions like Valentine’s day and birthdays. By age nineteen she had saved enough money for the “big league” and moved to the big city to launch her shop. This shop. Within a few years, and countless hurdles later, all her dreams were fulfilled. She loved her life.

While trying to carefully balance the roses against her chest, she turned the key to open the door. There was no fresh flower garland anymore. The chimes were mostly broken. And she had no smile to greet any potential customers.  

Since the opening of the fancy new shopping mall that was built across from her, her view of the river that she diligently savoured over a cup of coffee every morning was blocked , and she was robbed her of all her business.  

No one had the time to check out a tiny, home based shop that made up gift hampers of home made biscuits and fresh flowers in custom made vases, when the mall offered a splurge of branded flowers embellished by modern, techno-styled gifts packs from internationally franchised outlets. She saw nothing unique or special about that but the customers approved one hundred percent. 

Rose hasn't had enough sales in two years. All her savings were depleted. In the last few months she donated most of her flowers to the local hospice and home for the aged. 

It was time to make a decision. 

She had no one to turn to. Her flowers gave hope to those feeling dejected, put smiles on birthday girl’s faces, brightened boring offices and bestowed comfort to bereaved families. Although she recommended the prettiest flowers to young men who wanted to profess their love, she never met anyone who was available to express this kind of love to her. 

Rose was married to her garden. And with her pottery, painting, sewing, baking and music, her heart was full. On Sundays she went to church. Her customers provided daily companionship. Girl friends came over once a week to laugh off all stress over tea and treats. 

She politely put a halt to the tea parties almost a year ago. Tea became her dinner. She cancelled the shop’s silver anniversary celebration... Her weary head couldn’t think anymore. 

Now, as a poor, struggling artist, her only choice was to accept defeat, close her doors and go back to her old, tiny town to live with her parents. Maybe she could turn their home garden into a new business. No, no, no.... this wasn’t how it was supposed to end. 

Her heart was broken completely, knowing that in a few days the new owners of her piano will be coming in to take it away. Her guitar hung behind the counter, thick with dust. Her sweet songs introduced her to many a sweet friend in this city that became her home.

Rose turned the key to open, when two men dressed in black suits pushed the door, barged in, grabbed the flowers from her, shoved her aside (not violently, but very quickly), one guy ran to the piano against the front glass and grabbed the two vases displayed on it. 

They ran out screaming: “Sorry ma’am, they said that you are the one with the freshest organic flowers and most unique vases. No time to explain. Here....”

Her knees gave way as she watched the huge wad of notes flutter down to the floor and their limo speed off.