Tag Archives: flower

The Yellow Rose

Friday was the last day of class, and Profesora Casti lead her students to Almagro, the part of Buenos Aires known for its flower vendors.  First, the group wandered among the flower stalls on Acuňa de Figueroa where baskets of roses filled the air with intense fragrances.  Leonie bent over the bunches to breathe in their perfume, and she took turns saying their names out loud with her classmates.  They chatted with the vendors who told them where they grew their flowers and how they worked from early in the morning until late at night planting seeds, hand-watering, and pruning in order to produce the most beautiful blooms. 

The vendors chatted about Mother’s Day, weddings, and baptisms for which they sold the most flowers.  Some stayed open 24 hours a day.  The best time to buy flowers, they said, was late at night or early in the morning.  These really were the most romantic times of the day anyway. 

The class meandered to Calle Sarmiento where even more vendors had their shops.  One shop, filled with tuberose and jasmine, perfumed the air outside its door with heady floral fragrances.  Inside, the vendor was wrapping flower bouquets in cellophane paper for a woman and her two daughters. 

Leonie wandered away from the group to admire the lilies of another vendor.  While she was reaching out to touch a petal, a woman dressed in a green apron came out to greet her. 

“Your lilies are gorgeous,” exclaimed Leonie.

“Thank you.  My grandfather used to sell flowers on the streets of Buenos Aires.  My father sold flowers in the old market in stall 8, and, now, I rent this shop here to continue our family tradition.”

Leonie moved under the shade of the willow tree that grew right in front of the storefront.  “I love flowers,” she said.

“I love flowers, too,” replied the vendor.  “I’ll sell them until I’m old and frail.”

Leonie paused in thought, running the woman’s response through her mind.  Forever was a long time to do just one thing.  Leonie didn’t know that she would ever find something that she wanted to do for so long.  The woman in the green apron smiled at her, her face flushed with the essence of intense happiness, her eyes like shining opals. 

“So,” Leonie asked, “You don’t ever wish that you could do anything else?”

The woman smoothed down the front of her green apron with hands crusted with dirt, chapped from years of digging and planting.  “No, never. I never wish to do anything else. Each day in my flower shop I get to express my creativity, and that gives me intense joy.  Besides, I know that I like to be around beautiful things, and what could be more beautiful than a shop full of flowers.”

“You seem so content.”

“You see this willow tree that’s giving you shade?  A willow tree symbolizes fulfilling wishes of the heart.  It also symbolizes inner vision.  I’m lucky to know what fulfills my life.  That knowledge is my inner wisdom.”

The vendor showed Leonie around her tiny shop, identifying the names of all the flowers and inviting her to smell their fragrances.  Leonie told the vendor that she was about to take a trip to search for her life’s purpose.  As the woman listened to her story, her eyes glistened and a whisper of a smile set upon her lips.

Before Leonie left, the woman held out a yellow rose.  “This rose symbolizes our new friendship,” she said.  “Friends are one of the most precious treasures of your life.  From now one, you and I are lifelong friends.  I wish you success on your trip and hope that you find your version of life fulfillment. 

That night, just before Leonie went to bed, she sat at her desk to write in her journal.  I know what fulfills me, she wrote.  After setting down her pen, she felt anxious.  But I don’t know what fulfills me, she worried.  I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life.  I don’t know what makes me happy day after day after day. 

Leonie looked at the yellow rose that the flower vendor had given her.  Its yellow petals brightened up the shadows of her room.  She remembered how gently the woman had picked up each flower and described its characteristics, moving among her flowers with grace, touching each blossom with respect and admiration; her movements were filled with love. 

Now Leonie knew.  The woman had been a messenger from her own soul to teach her how to find her own purpose.  Love was an integral part of finding fulfillment.  When she found out what she loved, she would find her contentment. 

Leonie touched the yellow rose, and her heart filled with joy when she remembered that the woman promised that they would be friends for life.  Friendship, she thought.  I have love already. 

An Old Rose

She was worried about her mother who seemed to struggle to stay present, something pulling her focus away or inward.  Some days she sat in the arm chair by the window, staring straight ahead, her gray-blue eyes lost in deep thoughts. 

When Sestina tried to talk to her, her mother struggled to respond.  “Wait a minute,” she would say, then, with a determined set to her mouth, she’d squeeze her eyes shut for a brief moment, open them wide, and glare at Sestina while she slowly made a lucid response. 

Her mother woke up early every morning, took a spit-bath at the sink in her bathroom, put on her clothes, and combed her golden white curls until she looked neat and ready for an outing.  After breakfast—not a big one mind you—just a piece of bacon and half a piece of toast with butter and strawberry jam—she sat down in the chair by the window and disappeared into her private thoughts.  Her breathing was labored, and she raised her shoulders every time she inhaled, her chest rising slowly, and she exhaled by opening her mouth and releasing a small burst of air.

On Wednesday, while her mother was sitting in her arm chair, Sestina went out to prune the old roses off the rose bushes.  She knew her mother not only loved flowers, but she loved roses most of all, and Sestina wanted the roses to look perfect when her mother looked out the window.   Eight tea rose bushes grew in the redwood planter, a raised bed so that the roses bloomed at the same height as the window.  The planter was about six feet from the window so when her mother looked out, she could see the stems wave gently in the breeze and glow in the sun. 

The yellow rose bush was the heartiest with big blossoms that bloomed like cabbages.  One bush grew lavender roses, medium in size with delicate petals and a hue that took Sestina’s breath away.  Four of the bushes bloomed with various versions of red flowers, each a unique shade of red and shaped petals.  The two white bushes bloomed with the most flowers, always producing plenty of blossoms so that Sestina could cut some and bring them in the house.

Sestina held the kitchen shears in her right hand and pulled back a single stem from a rose bush, looking for the perfect compound leaf of five leaflets so she could prune the dead rose at just the right angle and place to encourage more growth. 

As she made the cut, the daylight intensified into a blaze of light all around her.  Insects’ voices grew loud into a hum like a Gregorian chant, and she heard the wind rush under the wings of a swallowtail butterfly who hovered over a rosebush nearby.  The butterfly glided toward her, waved its wings close to her nose, and she thought that she heard it whisper, it’s time for her, time for her.   Its black face smiled, and its eyes looked deep into hers, speaking wordlessly of love.  She heard the breath of the breeze travel through the petals of each rose, and the scissors snapped the rose’s stem like a clap of thunder.  She heard the leaves of the lemon tree give birth to new cells and buds of fruit.  Then, suddenly, the breaths of the insects and flying creatures, echoes of the growing plants, and pneuma of the wind were silent, and the garden was still.

When Sestina got back to the cottage, she found that her mother had died.   Her face was turned toward the open window and her hands were folded over each other like a final prayer.