The Bouquet

The day I was born, a gift sat on my bedside table.

A beautiful bouquet of flowers, real or imagined… I’m not quite sure.

As it happened, these flowers would not die until the petals parted from the sepal underneath.

They could only be plucked.

And so, if I was careful, these flowers could live an incredibly long life.

1 year old; the colours capturing my attention.

A few petals loosed at joyful carelessness.

2 years old; babbling constantly to loving parents.

A lazy arm and petals trailing in the wake.

3 years old; excited to meet my baby sister.

A chubby infant hand pulled out petals by accident.

4 years old; learning about friends.

A “bestie” who played rough, she said “sorry” when petals fell away at her touch.

5 years old; an “enemy” on the playground laughing.

Snatching back a stolen bouquet and watching petals fall away.

6 years old; a confusing scold from a teacher, “Those shouldn’t be at school”.

A few bumpy trips in my backpack and they shed a little more.

7 years old; classmates starting to whisper about “the weird girl with the flowers”.

The lie burning my throat as my mother questioned and apologized for the curious cat.

8 years old; the cute boy down the street walking to my front door.

Flowers taking a hit to “He loves me, He loves me not”.

9 years old; hearing a classmate whisper “know-it-all” followed by my own apologies for 'forgetting' my answer.

Holding the bouquet tightly, feeling hot tears and falling petals.

10 years old; older girls joining in on a challenge at recess against the boys. We won.

A pirouette of glee and flowers meeting a flailing hand, toppling off the table.

11 years old; friends talking about shaved arms and legs being prettier.

Sleeves pulled down to wrists until alone, where absentminded picking at petals evened the bouquet.

12 years old; entered in a math contest. I earned silver.

The bouquet a would-be-trophy that graciously rained petals down after soaring through the air and smacking the ceiling.

13 years old; I saw them staring at me, whispering behind their cowardice in a huddled group. I didn’t look like them. All bones and no makeup, I was a better target than most.

After a long look in the mirror and a barely stifled scream, I tore a flower away from its stem. It didn’t fit in the bouquet after that.

14 years old; I was expected to find my passions. Discovering a notebook and a good view opened a new world for me, one of fictional characters of my own creation.

Accepting a bouquet from my (imaginary) adoring fans made the cradled flowers loose petals in the crux of my arm.

15 years old; my favourite bullies plastered lockers with writing from my diary (stolen earlier in the week). Each piece signed with my name, the whole school knew of my fears, secrets, and my really strange bouquet that comforted me so.

Examining my flowers when I found myself home later in the night, I threw them across the room where they lay limp and less full on the floor.

16 years old; I met a wonderful boy. We were picture perfect in our interpretation of young love.

He loved my flowers. I gifted him with his favourite one on a made-up anniversary.

17 years old; I was ready to leave everything behind. Maybe bring him with me.

I pondered where I would go as I absentmindedly picked at the bouquet.

18 years old; my heart broke in two. Maybe he wasn’t so perfect after all.

In a blind rage, I tore at the bouquet and broke two flower stems. I sobbed for a while after that.

19 years old; I left town. I packed up my belongings and a small picture of my family and didn’t look back.

My bouquet clutched to my chest that first night, the trembling aggravated a few petals.

20 years old; my independent friends took me to a bar. Dancing with strangers and drinking too much became weekend routine. Then occasional weekday routine.

Giddy with substance at 1am, I grabbed at the small bouquet and plucked at the petals for no particular reason.

21 years old; I forgot how to concentrate. The stress of studies left me downing Adderall to focus at 3am. I didn’t want to do this project anyway.

I pulled at flower petals while glaring failures teased from my transcript.

22 years old; I forgot where I was going. My lonely apartment and minimum wage job were little motivation to wake.

My sad flowers rested in my hands each morning while I stroked their petals and watched them fall to the floor.

23 years old; I woke up in a stranger’s bed with an arm draped over me. I stumbled home and retched on the floor.

Fearful hands crushed flower petals as I sat with my sore body and my shame.

24 years old; I stared at the unpromising options to earn enough for rent as they sifted by on the screen. Surely someone would look past my hungover days on the job? Someone wouldn’t care about my lack of motivation? A friend would like to spend time with me? Family would open their arms if I decided to come home?

My anger manifested in the snap of a stem; a flower in half on the floor.

25 years old; my phone was ringing. I buried my face deeper into the pillow. It was my mother on the end of the line. Tears streamed when I listened to her messages. A mom calling out to her lost child.

I reached for the bouquet and my fingers met… nothing.

It was gone.

The last flower crushed by my life.

The petals strewn haphazardly along my bedroom floor.

I huddled in a pile of disgust for the night.

I woke to hands cradling me.

My mother, father, sister. 

There they were.

I held on. 

I held on so tight.

Later that day, there was a knock at my door.

Upon opening it, I did not find a person, just a simple bouquet on the doorstep.

“I hope you remember where you’re going” read the tag.

I beamed as I looked left and right to find the culprit.

I never did discover where it came from.

I knew it was real.