Traits of a Flower
A short story.
Story No. 9: Traits of a Flower
As both the owner and only remaining employee of her flower shop, Catherine unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and took her usual place behind the counter. The flowers were fresh enough to stay on the shelves another day, so she let them be, keeping in mind both cost-effectiveness and the general ignorance of most customers when it came to noticing the death signals of things as beautiful as flowers. This extended to other aspects of life, too. The young never imagined themselves old. The forest appeared always to have been a forest. A butterfly seemed to overwrite it’s earlier existence as a worm and its later existence as yet another dead bug.
This illogicalness was one of the main reasons she became attracted to the flower industry in the first place. There was a strange power in the humble, flowering plant, and all that poetic stuff. But when inspected closely, the trained eye could see that every flower plucked from the ground immediately showed signs of wilting, of decay, of death. It was the most salient of facts, and yet the one that needed to be reiterated most often: all things died, turned to dust, expired. Such was the joyful lot of the living.
It was a slow morning, as it had been yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Out of boredom she navigated to the local news website on her computer. The headline announced the death of a boy, age nine, that tragically occurred over the weekend, only a few blocks away from the shop. He was playing basketball with his brother, chased a rebound, and was hit by a distracted driver. The family declined to comment, being too aggrieved, besides a short quote from the mother, who wanted to the world to know “the absolute joy in his smile,” which she would never forget.
Checking the news, therefore, was a mistake. By what rationale did she imagine she would find inspiration and optimism in the news, of all places? But she didn’t know where else to look for these rarest of feelings nowadays. The flower shop was quiet and empty. The plants had become mere objects of financial gain or loss—mostly loss. And when she tried to think of some happy expectation in her rapidly progressing life, she didn’t know what that might be, and didn’t really care. Her computer screen went dark from inactivity, leaving her face in the reflection. Her glasses were smudged. Her skin was wrinkled. Her hair, a rat’s nest.
What in actual hell had happened to the joy she felt opening her flower shop only one year ago? How inspired she was then to embark on her mission of Bringing life and color to the community; how optimistic she felt about the success of her first business, Lily White Floral, and her future as an independent, well-loved, and savvy entrepreneur, zipping here and there delivering bundles of flowers overflowing with vibrance, and being paid well for her talents. The picture of the future she held in her mind back then was glorious. Even when she allowed for some amount of naiveté, was it wrong for her to envision her dreams fulfilled, her shop a success, her happiness achieved? Was it incorrect of her to have hedged on her tenure as a floral professional being measured in decades rather than in months? It seemed then, and now, that those who took risks should receive some form of compensation for their boldness, some acknowledgment, some minor salute—at the very least, a pat on the back as if to say, Good attempt. Take heart. At least you tried.
But in this, apparently, she was also mistaken. Her flower shop was failing. At the end of the month, her lease would be up. She would close the business, unless by some Hollywood Happy Ending Twist a handsome New York City Millionaire made a charitable purchase worth six-months rent for the sole reason of saving the business, the expense being equivalent to what he’d usually spend on a night out.
Unlikely.
Sad, even, to hold a hope like that, which also included a romantic fling with the hypothetical Wall Street Titan Whose Heart is Softened by Small-Town Love.
She had failed. That was it. That was the whole sha-bang. The climactic moment of her life, instead of a champagne bottle’s pop, was the depressing hiss of a pressurized water bottle, which also spills some of its contents onto your white jeans. Yes, everything had led here, and the array of bright flowers surrounding her seemed to mock her small, miserable existence behind the counter of the silent shop.
The store’s phone rang.
She let it go to voicemail.
It rang again.
“Yes?”
The woman was calling on behalf of her daughter and son-in-law, who were grieving the sudden loss of their child. She was planning a memorial service for the deceased boy, her grandson, and hoped to have a flower arrangement made by tomorrow. She apologized profusely for the late notice, and for their minuscule budget.
It was the boy.
Catherine made her mental calculations. For an arrangement like that, she’d usually charge upwards of a grand. That was too much. But the shop needed the money. But then, that amount wouldn’t save the shop anyway. She could decline the job and sell the flowers individually instead, reaping a greater profit. But that was a best-case scenario. And that would also be, essentially, fucked.
“Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make a full arrangement by tomorrow within budget. The numbers just don’t seem to work, unfortunately. But still, I’d like to do something.” And she kindly offered to make a few small bouquets for the service, free of charge.
She picked a few bunches of flowers. She unwound and cut some ribbon. She added sprigs of bloom and greenery to each. She snipped the stems, wrapped them, and laid them on the table, and in less than ten minutes, she was done. Having crafted bouquets like this thousands of times before, her movements were automatic. She was pleased with herself, for a change, until she looked at the five little bouquets lying evenly spaced on the counter, looking like bunch of dead birds.
Was that all?
She felt the silence of the shop; the flatness of the bouquets, which seemed to be actively losing their color. She heard the laughter of the rows of flowers again, which in their abundance, and color, and perfume were rightfully superior to her and her trite financial calculations, her ugly bouquets, her existence. The flowers, at least, lived for singular and worthy reason: to be beautiful. For what was Catherine living, by comparison? And she vomited in a can of trimmings.
She disassembled the bouquets and gathered together all the flowers available in the store, taking them off the shelves and laying them all out on the counter. Then she sketched a design for her most grandiose arrangement yet, one that would make use of every flower she had left, every color, every type, every roll of ribbon and wire—an arrangement to empty a shop that would be empty soon anyway. With any luck, she might make something with no other purpose than to be pretty, something worthy of the boy, of a flower’s short but perfect life, something that might even dignify her, Catherine L., sole proprietress of Lily White Floral, failure.
The shop was gone, her aspirations were gone, her vision for herself was gone. And why did she care so much? A boy was gone. Soon, she would be gone. Was it not her promise as florist to give all of herself and her flowers and her talents, especially to those in the midst of black days? Was it not her job as fellow living person?
Bringing life and color to the community.
She finished the arrangement, designed as three standing sections—center piece and side pieces—complimented by forty matching bouquets, and stepped back to analyze her work. It was good. Very good. And now she laughed with the flowers.
The next day she delivered the flowers to the church where the memorial mass was being held for the boy. With the help of the family, she situated the sections around the casket, and around the enlarged photo of the boy’s smiling face, and tied the bouquets to the end of each of pew, adorning the main aisle. It was true about his smile—the joy.
The family gave their thanks, and Catherine was embarrassed, and brushed them off, and kept her focus on the boy, and on the day, and on the priest as he raised up a circular piece of bread high above his head, fixing his eyes intently on this offering as he mouthed inaudible words that were, she presumed, in some way sacred. And she quietly cried without knowing why. Perhaps there was no particular reason. Perhaps there was every reason.
The store closed next week, shutting its doors early, being now completely out of flowers, and out of business. The FOR RENT sign went up. And as she left off mourning for the boy, she began little by little to mourn for herself, for her shop, for her life as a professional florist, which was behind her now.
When, how, where, and if she would return to her vocation? She considered these questions, but didn’t know the answers, and didn’t really care. Somewhere along the way she had forgotten, but now she remembered, that flowers had always been, were now, and would always be totally and completely free. Free to receive. Free to give. ♦
Lovely lesson!
Nicely done Matt. As the character moves through her negativity and sad reflections on life, when dreams have been misplaced and the focus falls on our own sadness an unexpected opportunity arises for her to give, and give absolutely and completely of herself in the deepest and most meaningful way. A poetic circle of resolution and redemption. Bravo.