Author’s note: This should be one of the title for October’s writing challenge, but my Oct was crazy and Nov even worse. Still… since I love the theme, so here it comes. Enjoy.
I hate rose.
In any colours.
In any fragrances.
In any meaning.
I deemed to see in my bias world, that whenever someone gifted another person with roses, they don’t have any idea about the messages within it and simply just choose the most overrated flowers and presumed everyone gonna like it. No thought in the process, not about the recipient whatsoever.
I know… I know… There must be someone who genuinely loves the thorny thingy, but it just doesn’t cut for me.
I love Calla Lily. A single stem and simple flattery to call me magnificently beautiful. I mean, really. Wouldn’t you want your ego to be stroked by someone who understood the wildness and the allure which only you have?
See, my point?
How could I even begin to deny?
It started with a branch of fern on my doorknob. The embodiment of ‘magic’. I laughed it off, thinking that it was one of the maidens around trying to peak my peculiar amusement. I picked it up, dried it and hung it under my window. Every single day without fail the knock and the branch would be there by dawn.
And then the second week came, the darkest Geranium combined with Gladioli with its bright colour. The petals were as red as the spill of blood with some bulb ready to burst, all being tied in front of the glass after the small knock. Considering my room is on the second floor, clearly, it took some skills. Who would offer a friendship with such sincerity? If she wasn’t interested it would at least drag her curiosity for longer.
Though, it surprised me even further when a bucket of Hyacinth and Iris arrived on the third week. The smell was so divine, I even tried to put the whole thing for my bath and wondered how to emerge such scent into my pores. Deep within, I understand the invitation to play. From who knows who that speak the language of flowers.
So, forgive me if I wasn’t thinking twice when the full moon appeared on the fourth week and the corner of my bed was full with Stephanotis. It was almost like a flutter of wings with all the white surrounding it. The tunnel, built by Bells of Ireland was the last straw and I was more than ready to travel with all the wishes of luck that I could muster.
I had no idea if you ever see me again.
But know this well, I put my feet down willingly, run into the wilderness with nothing but pyjamas on my back and have no regret.
[FIN]
