Flowers

  

I will never understand women who say they wish their husbands didn't bring them flowers. It's a waste of money, they say.

My husband will often say, "we need flowers." He brings in big bouquets, a few sunflowers, even cotton balls or pussy willows. No matter what he chooses, what he brings is joy.

Whatever vase we put them in, every time I walk by, it creates a flash of pure happiness at their beauty, shape, odor. They are a reminder of the saying, slow down and smell the roses, or in each bouquet, it could be slow down and smell the lily, the petunias, or whatever. I often don't know the name of his blooms, but that doesn't stop me from feeling happier just by looking at them.

Maybe it is a variation of how I don't want to know the name of different Alps, thinking man is a bit pretentious wanting to name something that existed millions of year before him and will last million of years after he's shuffled off this mighty coil.

When he brought home this last bouquet he put them in our Catalan pitcher. He said he didn't notice that the colors of the flowers matched the different colors of the pitcher he selected, but I suspect at some unconscious level, he did. It doesn't matter. I am happier because I stopped to smell the flowers.