the flowers he picked for you
The flowers your son picks for you - ripped off at the bloom, held in sweaty palms for a time then presented.
You take them, those flowers, slightly crushed with little chance of lasting long. You find a dish he approves of:
“The grey one? or the yellow one? OK. The grey one.”
You fill the dish with water. Float the flowers in it as they have no stems to stand on. This tattered gift, so much nicer than hot-housed and cellophane-wrapped florist flowers.
You say thanks, and you mean it. You kiss a flushed cheek.