THE FLOWERS

The flowers arrived at the inn mid-blizzard and dressed for the weather:  a full snowsuit, cellophane shawl, wool scarf wrapped tight around the neck of the vase.  They settled onto the countertop before disrobing in a heap of thick fabric, a brown and blue bird’s nest dusted with snow.

Whoever could they be for? we said.  We were by the fire.

Is there a note?

Maybe they’ll say something.

We waited.  But the flowers were waiting, too.  Yellow roses in a bed of baby’s breath, not quite a dozen, maybe nine, their bright heads tied together with a white ribbon.  The glass vase filled with water.  A small packet of plant food floated discretely between the long stems.

I think I see the note, we said, hoping one of us would investigate.  No one was fooled; we were by the fire.

Yellow roses mean friendship and warmth.  Never accept yellow roses from a beaux; that’s a bad sign.

The flowers stiffened on hearing this.  They were harbingers of lost love, of course, and tried not to draw attention.

Someone sent me striped carnations once.  Do you know what they mean?

What? we said.

Striped carnations are a refusal of love.

Who would give striped carnations?

Who would refuse love?

I think friendship is the key to longevity.  Anyone can be filled with lust, but lust never lasts.  I’d prefer  yellow roses.

The flowers brightened.

Hydrangea stand for heartlessness, we said.

But whose?

We didn’t know.  We didn’t know anything.  It was warm by the fire.

When the bell over the door rang, we watched a large old woman enter.  She was dressed for the weather, too, in layers of hats and coats and scarves, and as she peeled each layer we realized she wasn’t large, but rather small and frail, her limbs like stems, her face a rosy ambrosia.

She saw the flowers and moved to smell them.  One by one she dipped her nose into each broad blossom.  By the look on her face we could tell the scent was lovely.  Not a bee stung her.  The flowers whispered and whispered.

Whose are these? the woman said.

They didn’t tell you? we said.  Is there a note?

No note.  They only told me where they’re from—a vast field of yellow roses, where it always rains and never snows.  But they don’t miss that place, they told me.  They’re glad to be wherever they find themselves.

Does it hurt them to be cut?

They didn’t say, she said.

We looked at the flowers.  Their sliced stems were magnified by the glass.  Even from our side of the room we could see their severed veins and capillaries, the looming silver ghosts of the sheers.  The old woman shivered.

You must be very cold, we said.  Come and join us by the fire.

And so she did.  We made room on the couch and shared our footstool.  We were all by the fire.

Why do they cut the stems at an angle? we said. I don’t remember.

That must let more water up.

And plant food.

Yes, and plant food.

Then maybe it’s not painful at all, we said.  Maybe it’s like drugs, all that food and water.  Like shooting up.  A little prick and then bliss.

We all agreed.  The flowers looked lovely.  They were in heaven in that vase, all that food and water.  The buds were bright as suns, each petal its own fire.  But we were already by the fire.

A girl entered from a back room.  She worked at the inn.  She wore an apron and saw the flowers and wiped the work from her hands.

They must be her flowers, we whispered.

Of course, they would be sent here to where she works by some wonderful man.

A man who knows not only lust, but companionship.

Yes, companionship. 

They’re certainly not orchids.

Never orchids.

The girl smelled the flowers.  They whispered something and she giggled.  They trembled with joy.  The flowers were hers and they knew it all along.  They were happy to be hers, such a lovely, blooming girl, full of life—a life full of flowers.

The girl looked up and saw us by the fire.  Are these yours? she said.

We watched the flowers, and the girl behind the flowers, her head a great blossom lifting above the flowers.

They’re not for us, we said.  Of course, they’re not for us. 

Come and join us by the fire.