FLOWER POWER
by Karen Morgia
"Father, what’th thith?" asked an inquisitive high-pitchedvoice coming from the upper balcony of the study.
The dark-haired, bearded gentleman sitting at an antique oak deskin the book-lined chamber of stone, looked up from the blueprints hewas perusing, only slightly miffed at being disturbed. "What’swhat, Vincent?"
"What’th thith thing?" The young petitioner, eager foradditional knowledge, held up a thin, green, barb-covered stalktopped by soft, delicate red petals.
A look of deep regret flashed through Father’s sad, greyeyes. The knowledge that his young son could never know the beauty ofthe world Above; that he would never be able to stand in thesunlight, or gaze at the wondrous beauty of a flower in its naturalstate, gave him much sadness. Keeping tight rein upon the tearsthreatening to overflow their banks, he answered the innocentquestion. "That is a flower, Vincent…a rose, to be exact. Wheredid you find it?" Even though he asked the question, he believed healready knew the answer.
"I found in on the ground outthide Mary’th chamber. Father,she wath thitting inthide crying. Why wath she crying? Did it havethome-thing to do with thith? She wath holding thome of them in herhand. Did they make her thad?"
Father smiled. "No, son, I don’t believe she was sad." Notlong before Vincent’s untimely entrance into his chamber, Fatherhad paid Mary a light, passing compliment and presented her with asmall bouquet of flowers that one of the children had‘found’ in the Park and deposited on his desk. Rememberingthe touching, tearful look in Mary’s eyes, Father lookedwistfully at a point above Vincent’s head and remember anotherlovely lady from years past, who also cried when presented withflowers.
The faraway look on Father’s face caused Vincent’s youngbrow to furrow in puzzlement. "What could Father be thinking about?He looks so sad," he observed silently.
"Father?" There was no immediate response to Vincent’shesitant query. "Father?"
Visibly shaking himself from memories of a past best leftuntouched, Father finally answered the insistent young voice, "Yes,Vincent?
"Why did thith thing&endash;thith rothe&endash;make Mary cry?" Tothink that someone he cared a great deal about might be sad, causedVincent much disquiet. "I don’t want Mary to be thad," added theconcerned child.
"She wasn’t sad, Vincent; and to answer your question, Idon’t believe anyone could give you a logical answer as towhy she was crying. Men have been wondering about the answerto that for centuries. Women seem to have the most maddening habit ofreacting in the most illogical manner to the simplest ofsituations…like crying over a bunch of flowers. I would ventureto guess that Mary was crying because she was happy, not be cause shewas sad."
"Happy? Women cry when they are happy, too?" commented theconfused little boy.
"Yes, son." He smiled at Vincent’s unbelieving tone of voice,"They cry when they are happy, too."
Vincent smiled as he tenderly stroked the soft, pure white petalof a rosebud held delicately between the fingers of a furred, clawed,deceptively gentle left hand. It had been many years since he hadfirst seen and held a flower, but the marvel of such natural beautyhad never lost its wonder for him; nor had the perplexity ofunderstanding a woman’s reaction, when presented with one ofMother Nature’s most delicate achievements.
The rush of emotions he was sensing from Catherine brought a smileand a devilish twinkle to his deep-set sapphire-blue eyes. Herreaction had been as expected&endash;smiles and tears. He had alsorather expected to be attacked and hugged within an inch of his life.He had not, however, been prepared for the ardent, passionate kissthat she had bestowed upon his lips&endash;it nearly took his breathaway. The taste of her lingered on his mind and in his heart like thesweet taste of honey on his tongue. Her love sang through his bodylike the silent thrum of harp strings, deep and reverberating. To begifted with the love of such a woman was a wondrous thing.
Without thinking, he held the rose up to inhale its delicatefragrance and closed his eyes to dream of Catherine and a future ofpossibilities.
Sitting on the garden bench of her balcony, Catherine smiledthrough the gentle rain of tears which insisted on coursingunceasingly down her cheek as she tenderly stroked the soft, deep redpetal of a rosebud. The memory of who had presented the delicatebeauty to her, caused a tightening around her heart which only servedas a reminder that love was the most wonderful emotion in the world;that such an extraordinary, unique man loved her was something shecould, at times, scarce believe was true.
But, why did he always seem to insist on doing such sweet romanticthings to make her cry? Surprise notes left on her balcony,invitations slipped under the front door, and the most cherished ofall, the almost miraculous arrival of a single red rose at theoffice, or delivered to her door, or lying on the balcony table. Onemorning she had even awoke to find one of the little lovelies lyingon her pillow where she would see it when she first opened her eyes.The man was so darned romantic! And with that thought, Cathybegan to cry anew, a loving smile gracing her lips as her heartnearly burst with love for Vincent.
Without conscious thought, her mind and heart attuned to the manshe loved, Cathy raised the rose to inhale its delicate fragrance andclosed her eyes to dream of Vincent and a future ofpossibilities.