Secret Garden

"Someone's coming home. In hand a single rose." - John Mayer

People have asked me what my favourite flowers are and I always fail to give an answer that will stick. Picking a favourite type has never crossed my mind seeing that for the life of me nobody significant has ever gotten me flowers. No guys have ever had the need to court me with nature's pretty dresses that I have to specifically sit down and ponder over roses or carnations. So with that, my favourite kind of flower is left undecided. However, I would like to believe chamomile is my favourite. It smells good in my hair.

I have seen flowers being exchanged throughout my life. In high school, I had a mate giving another mate flowers for her birthday. I have never had such inspiration to present flowers to friends on their birthdays. For my short span of time working in Dell, I see bouquets of drying wrinkled flowers still left in cubicles. Something to remember. Something to smile at. Jennifer, a colleague, is blessed with the most adored husband who delivers flowers for no apparent reasons at all. The white roses at her cubicle were living an afterlife of old musty brown when a new bouquet were brought in for her. She said she felt like Miss Earth and had an urge to wave her hand only a crowned winner would know how. We could not help but sigh. Sharon, my regional manager, received a bouquet of forget-me-nots on her birthday from us. She loved the flowers to bits. Before I left, they were still glowing behind her laptop. I remember dearly of my presence at the busy airport in Hong Kong. A guy presented his darling a bouquet of flowers for her homecoming. They embraced. They kissed. They were so lovely I could not help smiling and wanted to follow them home to allow such optimism to linger longer.

I got my first bouquet of flowers from my family when I was hospitalised back in September 2004. I remember the date clearly because it was September 11 and when the doctor was called in, she brought along the night's newspaper with the World Trade Center's twilight substitute blaring on the cover page. While I was squirming in a mysterious pain, I stared at the picture that has nothing to do with me. I was bored out of my mind. Room For Squares and Heavier Things were only interesting till the third round and The Simarillion would run out soon enough if I read it too fast. I had a long week to go in the lonely hospital bed that I was glued to due to my immobile lower half.

The flowers came as a surprise. I could still remember the instant smile that was smacked onto my face when the delivery guy appeared timidly from behind the curtains. I could not help looking at the flowers. I could not contain this surge of happiness that seemed to blossom the way the petals stood. It was at that very moment when I realised how marvellously flowers can affect a person's emotions. You see it on TV. You see it on the streets. But what you fail to see is this feeling bubbling inside. It was a lesson well-learned. I kept it true to my heart.

However, it is the cycle of life that will end it all. An exchange between life and afterlife that knows nothing of forever. I retreated to my beloved bedroom on the second week. I requested to sit next to my flowers - including the bouquet of roses from Ames and a single lilac from Sze Mien and Ee Ling. Not to breathe in their heavenly scent but to see that they do not fall into harm's way on the long journey home. I could only protect them so much. I looked at them when I was bored. I sprinkled water on their petals. When the day they wrinkled and slowly died, I felt my heart drop like their drooping forms. For that, I learned not to gaze at a beauty that falters in front of my eyes. My mother threw the flowers away when she thought it was time. I did not protest.

I got another bouquet of roses from my family for my college graduation. Frankly, it was expected. It is a graduation tradition of some sorts. To present the graduates with flowers. You might shudder at two things during graduation: (1) Your entire family do not attend the ceremony, and (2) You did not receive any flowers from them. The flowers did not thrill me as much as the ones during the hospital did. Maybe it was the unexpectancy. Maybe because they were roses. I suspect I have problems with roses I will never know why and what. Maybe in the past life I was killed within the confines of rose thorns encircling my limbs and neck till I am out of breath, out of blood. Maybe.

I have a strange fascination on roses otherwise. They are over-rated. They are commercialised. They are in killer red. They are dipped in hypocritical blue. They are a proclaimation of love, of forgiveness, of courtship. Or maybe. They are a premonition of an ending they soon bring alongside their foreseeable death. Give the flowers five days the most to hold the intention of the sender. When they die, they do not mean anything they say anymore. Your heart will break, your forgiveness forgotten, your courtship a high school joke. A friend was presented with roses from her ex-boyfriend. Soon after that, they broke up. See. Premonition.

I wrote stories revolving these devils in disguise. A reader pointed out my weird fascination that got me thinking of my love-hate relationship. One spoke of the premonition I just mentioned. The other was an everlasting proclaimation that kept a relationship intact even after changes and distances. I broke hearts and mend the mess I made. It is closure. It is what you should do as a writer to not let things hang in midair.

The flowers we hold for the ceremony were more like candids and show-offs than appreciation. We were running around armed with our bouquets, snapping pictures with mates you merely speak a few words with during the whole two years in campus. Makes you wonder how many true friends you made in college. Not many. We were comparing bouquets, appreciating what our mates have more than the ones in our arms. We carried our flowers everywhere. Upstairs. Downstairs. A graduate should not saunter around campus on her graduation day without a bouquet of flowers. An unwritten rule or something. It seems abnormal without a bouquet in your arms.

I never bothered with this bouquet when I got home. I left it downstairs next to the piano. I barely noticed it whenever I passed by. When they died, I never knew when.

I was 20 when I gave pink roses to my family members. I did not know what sparkled me to do so. Maybe it was that time when I decided to buy my mom a bouquet of pink roses for her birthday (Or was it Mother's Day). I can still remember the instant spread of smile on her face when I emerged from the passenger seat with the bouquet. She could not stop talking about it to her friends via the phone. I kind of felt bad for my sister for not informing her about it. Although it was from both of us, we both knew our mother would only remember the person that brought the flowers home. Or maybe it was because of the lesson I learned.

I snuck up to my room when I returned home on my birthday with the roses. It was sort of easy. My dad was not home. My sister was out somewhere. My mom was pottering in the kitchen and would barely turn around to see my return. I kept the roses hidden in my room and hoped nobody would come in and see them. Past midnight, when they were all in bed, the roses were near to death from the suffocation in my humid room. Blame the weather. I felt a tad bit annoyed at their drooping forms. The petals were shut tight. I almost hated them.

I wrote my family love letters, thanking them for the 20 years of my life, apologising for my childish behaviours. I have learned that not everybody will know what is going on in my head unless I tell them. So there. It was closure. I was bleary the next morning when my dad came in to peck me on the forehead and thank me for the letter. I had to give my sister's rose the next day because she locked her door the previous night. My mom mentioned about the letter to my god-sister the next time she came to visit. I knew she was happy. I was happy.

I learned in from TV. Some Taiwanese program. Give guys sunflowers. I do not know the meaning behind that but sunflowers seem like a better choice than roses. I also read from some forwarded emails that THE SURVEY showed that a larger percentage of all males out there do appreciate it when girls give them flowers. I must admit, it is a shocking surprise. The percentage was even at the 90s mark.

So I asked a handful of my guy friends what would they think if a girl (or their girlfriends, if they have one) would to present them with flowers. Either on an occasion or not. One straight out spat at the thought because flowers are for sissies and gays, and if the girl is smart enough, she would buy him fancy gadgets rather than something so impractical. Another teetered at the borderline a little but in the end, put on his macho face and said it is better not to. The others with girlfriends said yes why not. But they said that mainly because they do not want to offend the girlfriend. They would "appreciate" anything their girlfriends give them. But you know deep down inside, they would feel weirded out and wish it never happened. Only one genuinely answered yes. Of course, it would be a surprise and sort of weird but yes why not. It is sweet. Who knows? Maybe flowers can trigger this sudden burst of happiness too even for the said dominant kind. It is universal. It is unisexual. They are only human.

So maybe I start liking flowers with visible flowerheads that are bigger than the petals. Sunflowers. Daisies. Dandellions. Flowers you remember of when you mention spring. What else? Forgive me, I am not an expert in my father's garden of 44 springs. But beware. Every rose has its thorn. That goes for every flowers out there too. They are not meant to be off from the ground. You are plucking life from soil. Dwell in the happiness these summer dresses can provide. But do me a favour. Come autumn, come death, do not look at them if you still want to lie to yourself of a beautiful world. Keep the dresses in the closet. Do not try to make them stay either. Because you may grow fat for the colder seasons. They may break a strap or taint an ugly stain. You cannot stop the world from turning. You cannot stop a person from dying, a flower from dying. Close your eyes from the funeral to remember the bright colours. What comes next, is another spring to be happy about.

Credit: Sunflowers by my Eskimo friend.