Throughout my life,
I have received flowers as gifts,
and I have given them in return.
When I was young,
my mother would give me flowers
whenever I topped my class.
They came from her own garden—
a place where every blossom was cherished.
She never picked a flower
unless the occasion truly deserved one,
which made each gift precious.
I loved those flowers
more than any candy.
As I grew older
and entered college,
she began giving me books
along with the flowers.
She opened the door
to the wonderful world of reading.
I devoured every book she gave me
and wandered farther,
through the shelves at home,
at school,
in college,
and in public libraries.
When I graduated,
she handed me
a bouquet of white roses
and a book—
The 9 Things Every New Graduate Should Know.
Its pages travelled with me
through every new beginning
and every turning in my life.
I still have that book
and a few dried rose petals
pressed between its pages.
The first flower I ever gave
was to the girl I loved in college.
It was a single red rose,
offered with a box of chocolates
and the unspoken words,
“I love you.”
As our love blossomed,
the roses multiplied.
Birthdays, anniversaries,
or no occasion at all—
flowers were always accompanied
by books,
chocolates,
pens,
or some small gift
chosen with love.
When I proposed,
I gave her
a bouquet of twenty-four red roses
and an engagement ring.
Her smile made the flowers
seem brighter than ever.
After we married,
flowers became
our quiet language.
Every bouquet arrived
with a card that simply read,
“I love you.”
She answered in kind,
and every flower she gave me
carried the warmth of her heart.
When our children were born,
I brought her flowers
along with kisses.
Together we taught them
that love is rarely measured
by grand gestures,
but by the small acts of kindness
that quietly say,
“You matter to me.”
The children grew,
carrying those little traditions
into their own homes.
Now they give flowers and gifts
to the people they love,
just as they once saw us do.
Then one day,
my wife fell ill.
Two days later,
she was gone.
Friends and family came,
carrying flowers
and notes of condolence.
But for the first time in my life,
flowers meant nothing.
No bouquet,
however beautiful,
could mend
my broken heart.
