painting the roses red

Roses are such a visceral flower. Thought of as one of the most beautiful plants, they shield themselves with spiky thorns. Almost as if they know that because of their beauty they'll be picked. I'm not a flower kind of gal. Using a plant to represent ones undying love for another human is pretty silly; when the mere act of giving someone flowers is in turn the beginning of the end for that plant.

The rose bush was alive and sweet when he gave it to me. Soil damp with life, petals blooming in the light of my bedroom window. It was Valentines Day, how cliché. "See it's a bush" he said; "I know you hate bouquets." I had to admit, he had me there. But with that realization came another. It's not the flowers that I hated, it was what they represented. "It will blossom and grow like our love" he said; I smiled emphatically as the rest of my body cringed. I don't want this. But why?

I called my mother on Valentines Day. Jokingly I asked her if my father had gotten her any flowers. "He did" she said; "I don't know why he did that". We laughed and joked and that was that. It didn't resonate with me until later, that I am truly my mother's daughter.

He left the next day. Telling me he'd be back soon, and reminding me to not forget about the plant. I stared at it blankly, as if I had never seen it before. A week went by and I must say I gave it a honest effort. I watered it, pruned it, moved it so my cats couldn't eat its leaves. It was a lost cause. My rose bush was dead. My love was dead.

I went home the next weekend. While talking to my mother I noticed out of the corner of my eye, a rose bush sitting on the windowsill. Just like mine back home, these poor roses had never stood a chance. Wilted, and getting blacker everyday, the soil that had once been full of life was now as dry as a bone. For a moment I felt that inner cringe inside of me again, as I did the day mine were given to me. When did flowers evolve into this empty meaning? Even as a little girl, I would lie in the dandelion patch behind my house, blowing every one I could get my hands on, wishing that my prince charming would come and whisk me away. I spent countless hours outside plucking petals off of my mothers flower bushes, repetitively asking if "he" loved me or not. Who "he" was I don't remember, and I really don't know if he ever really existed to begin with.

Now I sit here, as an adult, saddened by the fact that I never truly appreciated a flower for what it was. It is not a symbol, it is a living thing. I don't know when little girls are taught that flowers signify love. Was it from our mothers? If that's the case, then I feel bad for us both. All this love in our possession and we just let it die. Are we giving up on love, or are we giving up on ourselves?