A Flower for a Gentle Soul

A few days ago, stopping at the grocery store to pick up a few things for Amy, I decided to get her a dozen roses as well - a very nice shade of orange-pinkish-white. Before I got the chance to give them to her, Ian saw them, and wanted one.

Ian is a very sensitive young man. Amy very sweetly offered him a flower a couple of years ago, one time when she had some a bouquet. She asked in the sweetest, softest, liltiest of voices, as if gently trying to bring out Ian's hidden inner-Ferdinand (as in Ferdinand the Bull with the Delicate Ego). He seemed on the verge of accepting the offer at that point - Amy had suggested he could keep it in his room - and then he suddenly turned it down. I was afraid he might have picked up my amusment, at that point, that my three- or four-year-old boy might want a flower; the idea that I had possibly scared off his gentle side made me feel very bad, like Alan Alda on a bad guilt-trip.

So the other night, when Ian showed interest in having a flower, I decided to encourage it, and he accepted it. (Amy got something just shy of a dozen roses, as a result...) I put it into a short drinking-glass, with water, and put it in his room.

However, time took its toll; Amy threw out her bouquet a few days ago. But Ian still has his, and it has turned to a dark brownish-white, which led the lad to conclude: "My flower is all rusty now."

(June 12, 2009)