When Flowers Spoke to Me
written by: Shanti Chandrasekhar
In our front garden, when I watched my mother tending to roses, dahlia, sunflower, marigold, it wasn’t as if I didn’t see the beauty. I was more eager to play with my friends then.
My friends now, they seem to forget that every time they gift me a potted plant, the result’s the same. Time and again, my friends bring me flowers and plants, and time and again, I allow them to shrivel and wither and die.
“All you need to do is water the plant, I’ll take care of the rest,” a friend says when I ask if I needed to change the soil to keep the petunia alive. She’s discovered that my wilted plant, with no more purple flowers, is not yet dead. She squats on my deck, removing dried leaves, her deft hands playing with the mud in the pot. I can tell she’s annoyed with me, if not upset. You know I do this, so why do you keep getting me plants, I don’t say to her. A little guilty, a little defiant, I stand there and watch her bring the plant back to life.
***
In the email with funeral service details for a family member, a coworker writes: in lieu of flowers, you may contribute to the American Cancer Society. That, I think, is a better option, not quite understanding how flowers could help.
***
It’s the fifth day after my mother’s passing. My doorbell rings. “Probably some door-to-door salesperson,” I mutter, not inclined to open the door. Squinting through the peephole, I see a pleasant face, and at what seems like a mile away, a dark-colored van parked on the street. Surely not a UPS van, it’s rather small. I open the door anyway.
The pleasant-faced deliveryman says my name as a question, making sure he’s delivering it to the right person. Or perhaps unsure if he’s saying it right.
“Yes,” I say, taking the flowers from him.
“Careful,” he says, “it’s heavy.” It’s a glass pot.
Through the mist and drizzle, the smaller-than-UPS-van reads: 1-800-flowers.com.
I bring in the “Lavender and White Healing Tears” and find a note from a close friend, who has connected with me on all five days this past week, through text messages, phone calls, a personal visit to console me like few others could.
She didn’t need to do this. She’s already done so much.
I remove the plastic wrap from around the pot now sitting atop the counter between my kitchen and dining area. My fingertip brushes against a soft white-rose petal. Carnations, daisies, hydrangea, and other lavender and white flowers arranged with a unique mix of professional precision and a personal touch.
Flowers. Today, I see something beyond beauty in them. A comforting softness. Is there something else in the mix of fragrance? The scent of jasmine? The little white flowers my mother tucked in her hair every evening.
There’s no jasmine in the bouquet.
I sense a presence. And the flowers speak to me. They soothe my aching heart. They surround me with peace, solace, and healing, in a way I never knew flowers could.
- When Flowers Spoke to Me - July 9, 2025
