I never have understood the point of flowers as a gift let alone as a means of consoling the ill and bereaved. With the world in pieces around us the last thing on our mind was looking after flowers. The gesture is well meant but just made us more sad. They were a reminder that things die. We were in a fog where it was all we could do to feed ourselves let alone remember to refresh water to delay the inevitable decay of flowers that were meant to cheer us. They were an inversion of the bright happy flowers that should have been there alongside cards congratulating us on our new arrivals rather than the procession of cards with serene scenes and yes, more images of funereal flowers.
The flowers also came with the added fun of being toxic to cats so we had the task of making them safe but with the underlying fear that we somehow missed some stray pollen speck that would kill our cat. I would have little CSI interludes where I would imagine the cat cleaning himself followed by a fast zoom to the grain of pollen on his coat.
For added fun there’s the look of silent reproach when flowers have not been taken care of. Priorities are clearly skewed if the water isn’t changed and rotting blooms politely disposed of ahead of company.
Never mind that the thought of having to throw out what was once a living thing may have some uncomfortable associations it is impertitive that flowers are looked after.
Now for some whistling to calm down.