Tesco sells flowers. They stand
them in bunches in buckets of water tightly grouped together looking at you
like children in an orphanage wanting you to select one of them, if not
children then dogs with reckless faces that nod in supplication. They, the blooms
are the stuff of ardour, of love. They are gifts given on mothering Sunday or
to a lover, a wife or someone dear to you. These are the flowers of romance or
flowers for funeral parlours, their petals soft, colour coded to match the mood:
love and death, birth and decay – two ends of the same spectrum. I touch the
blooms, feel their velvety softness. I rub my forefinger and thumb against them
then lift my fingers to my nose. The musky scent is like the earth, pungent like
the mystic force of sex. The thought of buying a bouquet crosses my mind, but
no one has died. No moon or stars have eclipsed my sky.
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