Growing

There was something to be said for the scent of fresh flowers. No matter how rocky the outside world was, within the glass windows of her hothouse and her shop, there was peace and hope. It was hard to have flowers without hope, except maybe at funerals.

Then again, for those that believed in the after-life or eternal heavenly reward, you could argue that even funerals held a glimmer of hope and peace. Not that Sandra had ever really been the religious sort. It was hard to feel terribly moved by the spirit when you’d walked in on the minister naked with your mother at the tender age of fifteen. She supposed it didn’t really matter; they were consenting adults, but the hypocrisy of it all had stuck in her throat. While she’d gone faithfully to church until then whether or not she believed, nothing her mother or Minister Perkins could say would get her back in the pew after that spectacle. It was the perfect out for her. They tried once or twice to coax her back, but a meaningful look from her—lips pursed, eyebrow raised slightly—had put an end to that nonsense. Instead on Sundays, she had stayed home and usually gotten up to her elbows in dirt in the back garden.

She’d made bouquets, boutonnières, garlands, and corsages. All happy occasions benefitted from fresh flowers. She’d made untold numbers of bridal bouquets, I’m-sorry arrangements, and of course, all of the fittings for a prom.

Sometimes the person coming to pick up the flowers was a member of the celebrating party—dressed or half-dressed in their finery already. She’d never forget the bride whose maid of honor had gotten food poisoning at the bachelorette party and turned up herself to pick up the flowers with curlers in her hair and a Panic at the Disco t-shirt on over her wedding dress. The woman had seen her surprised glance and shrugged, saying, “I can’t get makeup on the dress and I’m not nearly ready yet.” She had helped the woman load everything in her car, buckling the larger arrangements into seatbelts and wishing her happiness.

Still, one of her favorite types of customers were the teenage boys coming to pick up corsages for prom. Fewer of them seemed to do it now, but it was still her favorite. For a lot of the girls, it would be the first time a boy had bought them flowers.

For many of the young men, it was their first trip to the florist. They stood awkwardly looking around at the profusion of colors, sizes, and styles available and didn’t know where to begin. She felt particularly tender towards the ones who knew they were supposed to bring a girl some sort of flowers she could wear, but didn’t know the word corsage.

She tidied up her spools of colored elastic. Pin-on corsages had mostly gone out of style, except perhaps for mothers-of-the-bride. Most young women said they didn’t want to put pin holes in their dresses, but rather more to the point, there often wasn’t enough sturdy fabric up top to pin any amount of flowers to. She always steered the high school boys to a good wristband corsage.

The Brooks High prom was tonight and most of her orders had already been picked up. She did keep a few extra on hand for the last minute boys—the ones who didn’t know they were supposed to get anything until their mothers asked where the flowers were. She straightened the row of boxes on the refrigerated shelf—four boxes with three small white roses and ribbons in several colors on each. Often the ones who came by at the last minute didn’t know what color their date’s dress was. The shy, nervous ones really found their way into her heart. She always wished them the best of luck as she handed over her creation. She smiled and would wave them out and tell them to have a wonderful time.

One more corsage was waiting. This wasn’t a last-minute, or a leftover. She knew the young man was coming for it. He had known exactly what he wanted. No roses or baby’s breath for him. Instead, he’d chosen delicate orchids in pink and purple to match his date’s ensemble. His tie would match as well. Instead of her regular elastic, there was a triple band of elastic covered in faux pearls. He’d known exactly what he wanted.

She hoped with all her heart he’d get it. He’d had a crush on this girl for as long as she could remember—ever since she had moved in next door. Her blonde pigtails always just visible around either side of whatever book she was reading, looking up with the gap-toothed smile only a five year old could pull off as adorable.

Sandra never cried at work. No matter how heart-wrenching an I-Love-You note or Condolence card she’d taken dictation for she did not cry. She did her best to keep herself together as the young man walked in. 

He was dressed up—he had promised he would be. She would still be here after the prom had started, determined to help anyone who came by at the last minute. She regretted that she wouldn’t get to see his date as well—but there would be pictures, she was sure.

His shoes weren’t new, but they were polished, and he looked dapper in his rented tux. The tie was his own, bought just for this occasion. “Is...is it ready?”

“Exactly as ordered,” she said, smiling weakly. She pulled the orchid corsage from the refrigerated unit and handed it to him.

“How much?”

She waved him aside. “You know it’s on the house.”

He took the box and looked at it admiringly. He knew beautiful flowers and these were at their peak of perfection. He leaned across the counter and kissed her cheek. “I’ve got to go pick Annie up. She’ll be waiting.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak—not to wish him a good evening or even to remind him to be home by midnight. Her baby was grown up. She’d been working at and then running this shop for more than twenty years, and now, her baby was off to his own prom. He was grown up. Before she knew it, he’d be in for wedding flowers. The tears didn’t fall until she heard the bell above the door chime as it shut.

For the first time in all the years she’d watched customers leave with their flowers to celebrate their life events, she felt alone.