“I must have flowers, always, and always.” ― Claude Monet
Roses. What about them? I am not a flower person. The husband has instructions to never present me with flowers. They are a complete waste of money and space, especially roses. They wilt, wither and perish. Yes, much like we all do, but they do sooner. Also, I think they look lovelier when not plucked.
I have no fascination for rosebuds or the many different varieties of roses; I couldn’t tell one from the other. I prefer shoe-flowers or hibiscus. I love the yellow buttercups, gerberas, and carnations, vibrant yet delicate. I love Tagore flowers, Jasmine, Mogras for their heady scents, and Periwinkles but most of all I love all kinds of green shrubbery. They make my window come alive with twittering sunbirds and a rare butterfly.
But roses stand out. Blooming among orange, pink and white hibiscus flowers, as the sunny buttercup sways towards the sunlight, the deep pink roses thrive. They grow in abundance, December roses, as I’d like to call them. Unfazed by noise, the cawing of crows or pigeon menace, they stand proud. No, they are not inviting. Like me, they want to be left alone too.
Their cheerful visage adds character to my otherwise dull winter existence. They make the silence seem louder but lighter. For once, I’d I have had a change of heart. Roses. Nothing special about them but they look lovelier when not plucked.