I want my world to be full of flowers.
I want cut flowers in vases, pots of them growing in the windowsill; flowers strew on the mantle, flowers in my hair, on the shelves, on the table. Wildflowers growing in the imaginary garden, and Dutch bulbs in the nonexistent flower bed. Flowers in offering to Mary and Jesus, where they look down benevolently on us from over the refrigerator. Putting flowers in a space transforms. Even the word "flower" sounds full of potential, anticipation, and the holy.
I miss the culture of flowers in the UK. Most houses and taverns have them growing from boxes in the windows. It is such a common practice to pick up flowers with the shopping that flower holders are built into the buggies and baskets. It gives itself away in a society that does not have lawns or yards; but has gardens.
It was here that I first became acquainted with buttercups, and I would pluck handfuls of lavender for my sock drawer.
There are potted marigolds for sale at Wal-Mart with kitschy scarecrows stuck in them. It is entirely too much for me; so one might be appearing shortly.