Pile of roses

I love the way trees in a city will flower, pinks and whites against harsh grey buildings, or the way flowers in a country garden will crowd colour up against a rock wall, or the way a whole meadow will bloom with daisies and vetch and pasture roses. I grow flowers in my gardens, and I gather wildflowers sometimes to put in vases.

But on a dark rainy day like today, when it's still too cold for flowers to bloom, I love the flowers that appear on my doorstop in a long white box.

I untie the ribbon carefully, and lift the cardboard lid, releasing the scent of damp petals. The roses, half-opened, are lined up neatly and carefully inside the box, bundled with baby breath, perhaps, or some ferns. The twelve stems reach all the way to the end of the box, wearing the green plastic holders filled with water. My kids used to fight over these little holders when I would take them off: if you put them over your fingers, you can look like some kind of evil villain with green claws.

I know that some people prefer elaborate flower arrangements or a variety of flowers arranged carefully in a vase. But what seems most beautiful to me is simply a pile of roses, spilling from the box, rose after rose, long stems dangling. I lift them from the box and carry them in my arms, petals brushing against my skin, before finally reaching atop my cupboards for a vase.