Daffs in the Rain

At some point in my early twenties I came to the realization--or sad conclusion, depending on how you look at it--that I could buy flowers for myself. I realized (while walking through a spring open air market in downtown Las Cruces, NM) that waiting for/expecting boyfriends to show up with flowers was a fantasy more than a reality. The boyfriends have been far and few between--even a decade ago--and I've only gotten flowers twice. Both occasions were in bad form.

So, now I buy my own flowers on the rare occasions I long for them on my dresser or windowsill. I have a penchant for daffodils and lilacs--also something none of the doofuses I've dated have ever picked up on--and it's never spring (to me) until I see the petite bundles sitting at sidewalk vendors casting rays of yellow to the retina. Every spring I shell out four bucks and buy a bundle, or two.

This year is no different, as I picked some up last week on a trip back from the market. You know, as a ray of sunshine amidst the April raindrops and my apples, bananas, and brussel sprouts. Today, again weaving among rain drops in April, I bought a bundle to nestle in a juice glass (since I've never bothered to buy a vase). As I think about it, I always seem to buy my daffs in the rain.

Perhaps a therapist would read into this notation as a marker of lonely, sadness, and even a strain of despair. Is it? Doubtful. I'd say it's more a sign of my life, as a continual circus ride, and buying a seasonal flower in the spring...known for its rains washing the winter grey away.