Picking Flowers
The spring breeze carries the scent of jasmine, and a girl in a white dress bends by the hedge. Her fingers brush the petals, soft as fledgling feathers, before wrapping around the stem. A quick twist, a faint snap—there, the flower is in her palm. Its yellow center glows, still warm from the sun, but already the stem drips a clear, sticky fluid, like a silent protest.She tucks it behind her ear. The jasmine sways as she walks, its petals brushing her cheek. A child runs past, chasing a butterfly, and pauses to stare. “Can I have one?” he asks, pointing to a cluster of daisies by the path. She plucks one, hands it over. The boy grins, clutching the flower to his chest, its white petals already curling at the edges.
Near the park bench, an old man sits, feeding pigeons. He too reaches down, plucking a dandelion gone to seed. He blows gently; the fluff scatters, floating toward the lake. A single seed lands on the water, bobbing like a tiny boat. The stem, now empty, drops from his fingers to the grass.
At the garden gate, a mother kneels to adjust her daughter’s鞋带. The girl tugs at her sleeve, pointing to a rosebush. “Pretty,” she says. The mother sighs, then picks the smallest bloom, its red petals still tight. The thorns scratch her thumb, leaving a pinprick of blood. The girl holds the rose, pressing it to her nose, and giggles when a petal falls.
By afternoon, the jasmine behind the girl’s ear has wilted, its edges brown. The boy’s daisy lies forgotten on the playground, stepped on by sneakers. The old man’s dandelion stem has been carried off by an ant, piece by piece. The rose in the girl’s hand has lost two petals, its stem now floppy, no longer standing tall.
The garden, though, doesn’t seem to notice. More jasmine blooms by the hedge; new daisies push up through the grass; the rosebush buds again, redder than before. Only the picked flowers remember—the snap of the stem, the moment they left the earth, the brief warmth of human hands before fading.
Picking flowers is a quiet theft, quick and soft. It leaves no scars, only a space where something once was—until the next bloom comes, and the cycle starts again.