Flowers

Every time I attended a For Christ's Sake acapella concert, I brought flowers. I don't know when it became the social norm to not bring performers flowers, but maybe I'm old-fashioned like that.


Once, when I left Telegraph Flowers, I waited at the crosswalk clutching my bouquet of a dozen red roses. A boisterous homeless man said to me as I crossed, "He must love you, giving you flowers like that! Mmm-hmm! Oh, he must lo-o-ve you." 

I thought in my head, "Hah! Yeah, right. He doesn't exist!" and kept walking.


This happened two years ago, but something about the weight of that man's words, combined with my own pessimism and independent attitude made it one of my more vivid memories.


The odd thing about flowers is that they look beautiful for a week, and then become a wilted, limp mess. Yet somehow, many of my favorite college moments involved flowers. Surprise flowers from sweet friends on my doorstep, just because. Silk roses in the mail from halfway across the country. Zafar, the nice old man who owns Campus Flowers on Sather Lane, handing me a Gerber daisy to cheer me up. Giving a housewarming mini rose plant. The most gorgeous red rose that bloomed for almost one full month past Valentine's Day.  Happy sunflowers on my dining room table. Giving flowers to random people on the street because I myself needed cheering up. Graduation flowers.


All of these memories are bittersweet. I've bought more flowers in my life than I've ever received; I know how much thought and effort went into perusing a florist, knowing what my favorite flowers are, delivering them to me at just the right time.


The man on the street was right, but not about the boy--that kind of love lasts longer than the flowers themselves.