Flower Picking

by Cordelia Wei, 10th Grade, CO, USA

 The soothing wind blew onto the flowers, making them dance in the audience of the sunlight. The field, dotted with purple and pink, were soon to be picked by children - picnicking, playing, and frolicking. The flower’s stem, once used as a source of nutrients for the plants, now wilted in the filthy hands of the greedy children. The softness turned stale in the summer air. The field watched, unsure whether to be joyful that the children were happy playing on its green skin, or to be infuriated that the children were stripping the land of its youth and beauty.  

Flower bouquets and rose gifts are timeless ways of showing appreciation and affection. There may very well be nothing better than to feel the colorful waxy surface spotted with splats of dew. Flowers, the mere thought of them brings an eye-pleasing image and the sweet scent of their presence.

Picking flowers is an innocent thing. It is depicted as a childish and affectionate way of life, with princesses always seen singing beautifully and aimlessly picking roses. It shouldn’t be a crime to make such a breathtaking object yours, right? Yet picking a flower means stalling its growth and killing it in the process. Its handsomeness is swiftly taken away and soon becomes a lifeless, brown, piece of compost. Its scent is only there for a few days before the breeze washes the sweet perfume away in a hassle. 

 I remember, years ago,  there was a pebbled rock path in the far mountain-temples of rural China. The three-foot high grass dwarfed my small frame. Blanketed by the grass were stunningly purple hyacinths and pretty pink cordelias so big I could stuff my small face into them. I was walking in awe behind my family and suddenly decided, I loved cordelias and felt the urge to pick one. I saw the biggest and most flattering pale pink cordelia and in one quick movement, severed the stem in two. It was truly the best flower in the path, with its petals mimicking the golden ratio, its color reminiscent of love, and its scent similar to that of sweet memories. My loving eyes finally rested on the big, blooming pink petals fading into magenta at the corners. I rolled the stem between my fingers. I wanted it forever. 

The flower was still in my hands as we exited the park. It was just then I started to feel the guilt of ending a paradise. Taking a glance at the flower seemed to make it shrink from my presence. The beauty's life was slowly dripping away like a leaky faucet. The leaves, although still pretty and structured, seemed to look at me in a sort of dejected and hateful way. Regret clouded my small mind as a mournful grimace found my lips. I quickly found a clump of fat hyacinths and dropped the cordelia in the middle, wishing I could somehow re-attach the petal to its stem.

The moment you catch eyes on something inexplicably attractive, the wanting urge that washes over you can be insatiable. The first glimpse of color and the first scent of a sweet flower. Purple, blue, pink, red, all over, swoop your hand down, smell the flower, touch its petals, the green stem, pick the flower. Once you’ve done it a few times, you can’t stop until all of the flowers are gone, and when the breezy wind comes once again, no flowers are there to please the audience.

P.S. The flower in the picture is a begonia cordelia, the flower I picked at the park.