Flowers

My mother loves flowers that look dead. Not flowers that are dead, if someone gifts her a bouquet, or brings flowers to a dinner party, she’ll produce a vase, fill it with water, and place the flowers in place of pride. Later, when the guests are gone, she’ll trim the bottom of the stems, and add some mysterious florist-provided flower nutrient powder to the water if she has any (usually, it comes with the flowers).

One day, I remember being worried that the flowers she was holding looked—to my eyes that were relatively uneducated in the nuances of flowers—sad and drooping. I asked her what kind they were, and she told me, and also answered the question that I was a little too awkward to blatantly ask, and told me that they were supposed to look like that, and that they were her favorite kind. Embarrassingly, I’ve since forgotten what they were called.

When my thoughts get too loud, I pluck them, wilted and tarnished, from my mind, and place them in a vase. The struggle is in remembering not to nurture them, leaving them unwatered. At least I know that when I manage to leave them alone, the next day they’ll still be beautiful, even as I force myself to not check. I know that even if I tried, I couldn’t prune them for good, so this is the best I can do.

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