When I need a boost in the middle of winter or any other time of year, I go to my secret garden that blooms all year. I open the door entering a small room cold enough for a sweater or light jacket. I close the door tightly, so the cool temperatures can keep the flowers fresh, but chill me to the bone.
The room is filled with shades of color, and fragrance. Each flower is identified. I am familiar with a few flowers, others are more exotic.
"What color appeals to me?" I ask myself, basing my selection completely on color with no concern for smell or shape.
I take the stems to the counter where a lady wearing a forest green cooking apron gently puts the flowers on a piece of clear paper. She adds fern, then folds the paper from the bottom and on the sides with the same care as if she was wrapping a newborn baby. She ties two ribbons around the middle and seals her efforts with a sticker identifying the store.
While she is preparing my flowers, I notice a shelf close to the ceiling, running the length of the wall, holding a collection of baskets of various sizes, shapes and colors. I realize the baskets will hold a variety of sentiments representing the kaleidoscope of life; I envision a basket of flowers welcome a baby, bringing cheer to a hospital patient, expressing love, comfort beside a casket, celebrating a wedding as a flower girl holds it tight and walks down the aisle - and many more events and occasions.
"Who are these for?" she asked, interrupting my communion with the baskets.
"Me," I reply smiling.
I cradle the bouquet like Miss America, anticipating the beauty of Gods handiwork, gracing my kitchen table.
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