“Do you think that flowers know that they’re beautiful?” she asks, in the middle of folding laundry. The bleached white towels stand in contrast to the navy blue comforter on the bed. Her folds are crisp, even, perfect. Her eyes flick up from her work, meet mine, and hold there.
I stand stark still, like prey hoping that its predator will move on. Her eyes continue to pierce into my soul. She will not move on.
“Do you think roses know that they symbolize love or that daisies know that we count their petals to steel ourselves from potential heartbreak?”
The words cling to the air, then expand, filling the whole room with their stifling presence. There’s a moment’s pause as we stand there, eyes locked, surrounding by the agony of her inquiries.
Then she breaks her gaze, looks back down at the towels, and starts to fold once more. “Do you think that when flowers are cut from their plants they know that some of them will end up on top of graves, showing the dead that humans still care?”
“I don’t think so,” I mumble in reply, grabbing a nearby towel and starting to fold, albeit much less expertly than her. “I don’t think so.”
Her Aching Thoughts
What do you know about flowers?
The Yellow Brick Ave 
Do your words know they are as beautiful as a flower?.
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Aww, thank you!
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well written and composed…held my attention all the way through. love the line: “Do you think roses know that they symbolize love or that daisies know that we count their petals to steel ourselves from potential heartbreak?”
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Thank you!!
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🙏🏼😃
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