Do you celebrate your birthday? I do. I love to mark each one. I don’t even mind that the numbers are getting big now, though not quite as big as my grandchildren tease (he says 150, she says 954). I wouldn’t mind a few additional years to accomplish even more, or at least try. But I know I am lucky to have had so many. Not everyone is as fortunate. And we never know how many days or years we will get. For this reason, I think we must enjoy every day and treat it as a gift. That’s why today is called the present, after all.
This week at the Carrot Ranch, Charli Mills challenged writers to In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a bouquet. You can explore the meaning of the word or gather a bunch of flowers. Go where the prompt leads.
You could say that the prompt was beautifully timed to coincide with my birthday, although I hadn’t considered the connection and was struggling for a response until I received these beautiful flowers from my daughter and her partner.
It made me think of all the times in our lives when bouquets of flowers are given and received: to share love in both joyous and sorrowful times, or to simply say, “I’m thinking of you.” We are often urged to, regardless of the occasion, “Say it with flowers”. Flowers, chocolate and wine are always well-received. (I was going to say “go down well”, but I thought you might think I eat the flowers too. I don’t.)
I tried to “find” a story of a young boy gathering wildflowers for his teacher on the way to school, but he wasn’t willing to cooperate. Instead, I’ve gone for a BOTS, except for the ending. I hope you enjoy it.
A Special Bouquet
As expected, they found her in her garden with a bouquet of fresh-picked flowers: daisies, forget-me-nots, peonies, zinnias, sprays of bleeding hearts and honeysuckle, a bottlebrush or two, a bunch of gumnuts and some greenery—to make each colour shine.
Her garden was her sanctuary, her confidante, her joy. She said families were like gardens, with beauty in variety. Every special day—birth, birthday, wedding, or funeral—she arranged a meaningful bouquet. In ninety-five years, she’d seen lives come and go. The last of nine, no doubt now who’d be next. How could she know this was her day?
Thank you for reading. I appreciate your feedback. Please share your thoughts.
Norah Colvin 
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