A Promise of Flowers  

   For my wife and me,money is not as available as it used to be.I switched to a more interesting job that paid less.Then baby James came.

   You find ways to house and feed youself for less,but the bigticket stuff is over:vacations in France or Mexio,Friday-night dinners in nifty new restaurants.Even our long holiday weekends are now spent at home.

   Through all the downsizing,though,one thing has not changed:the flowers. Starburst lilies still crowd one another on the aitiqueblue sideboard.White tulips in a pitcher on the kitchen butcher block, freesia and daffodils on the plank dining-room table, sunflowers on the sill—theu are all there. And on Janer’s night stand, always a single pale pink rose rests in a cut-crystal vase. It smells perfect. Over the course of a week, as each new rose opens, a mystery is played out. For three dollars, that mystery is the world’s best bargain.

   It’s my job to buy the flowers.When the sprays begin to droop and scatter petals.I hie to the florist. I ask which flowers will last the longest,wonder which will look best. Sometimes when money is especially tight, the kitchen goes without.Still,when Janet’s rose begins to brown or petals drop away, a replacement is quickle bought.Every now and then, I keep a running tab of the weekly cost: so far, the most it’s come to is $17. We can still swing that.

   In the beginning, I bought my wife flowers because they surprised her, and she’s smile. After the bouquets and roses became more commonplace, she’d still have that brief astonished expression when she unwrapped them – which counts for something. I’ve seen her step out of  hotshot restaurants with a lesser glow on her face.

   Now there are other reasons to buy the flowers. Because we’ve always had them. Because they’ve become a touchstone against bad things. Because their small, bright presence helps our life smell a lot more like joy than hardship.

   Plato believed such small beauties were a privilege of nature, All I know is that by spending a few squeaky dollars each week to make Janet smile, I smile. Among her flowers, late at night, I sometimes find calm. And in the quiet house – listening to my wife and baby sleep, suspended in the still-waiting promise of a future built around a woman and the few things you can love and hold – the flowers still seem beautiful. And, minutes later, more beautiful still.

from:'Tis Our Life P128-P130