My dear old mom won't let anyone buy her flowers. She says she can't take it if they die in front of her.
Which is probably like saying she wouldn't own a puppy because she doesn't want to see it get old, or read a book because she can't stand that it will end, or eat a chocolate because then it would all be gone and all she'd have to remember the wonderful experience is the foil wrapper.
Whether you believe in God or the Big Bang theory, there is something to be said for whoever (or whatever!) made flowers.
I ask you, who isn't amazed by the beauty of a dewy spring rose, the fresh look of a yellow buttercup, or the rainbow of colours in a bunch of gerberas (beautiful flowers with a horrible name)?
We've come to think of how a flower grows from a seed and blooms as a metaphor for life. We say that children "bloom," that a pregnant woman has a "rosy red glow," or that someone is "happy as a rosebud in June." Most flowers, like people, go back to the ground where they came from at the end of their short but impressive lives. Most of us do.
And flowers have their own language that only they can speak. Roses, which have always been a sign of love, are the big one. But don't think that a bouquet of flowers from your partner means he loves you forever.
According to the Victorians, who were the first to give flowers their own meanings, giving Candytuft means you don't care, Cyclamen means goodbye, and the poor old orange Lily means you don't like them or aren't happy with them.
Pity the poor guy who gives his lady-love a bunch of flowers in a pretty package. The flowery way he wants to show his love may need to be translated.
