The Paper Flower

The florist in the little corner shop loved romance. Which was just as well, since she owned a flower shop, and saw a lot of it. She loved all the flowers that she saw, and loved how each of them could be so different and yet still mean love.

Roses. Richly colored, deeply fragrant, and classically romantic.

Sweet Gerber daisies. Brightly colored, full, and fun.

Forget-me-nots. So many tiny blossoms that added up to a beautiful whole.

Chrysanthemums. Tough and hardy, glowing in the evening light.

Orchids. Sweeping, exotic, and delicate.

Tiger lilies. Fierce and bold and eye-catching.

Tulips. Simple and unassuming.

All these flowers she saw and loved. Their freshness and vigor, and the care required to keep them, made them all the more valuable, far outweighing any cheap imitation, no matter how realistic.

She told herself she would never settle for anything less than one of those flowers.

But long days and months went by, and though she saw so many flowers leave her store, none ever came for her.

Then one day, the boy came in. She'd seen him there before. He'd picked flowers occasionally for other girls, and many times he came in and just looked around, examining the signs that labeled all her plants.

She liked him. His interest in the flowers warmed her heart and drew her to him, even though he didn't come to see her. Sometimes, he'd ask her what she thought of her flowers, and when she talked about the unique beauty of the living flowers in her store, he would smile and agree that they were truly special.

This day was different. He came into the store and looked over the flowers with his customary care. This time, he picked one of her favorites and brought it to the counter, waiting patiently as she rang it up and wrapped it for him. Casually, he started to leave, and then suddenly came back, walking quickly toward her, still holding the flower. He smiled broadly at her, extended his hand--

and gave her a paper flower.

Despite her flash of disappointment, she took it, happy to have a flower of her own at last. He smiled at her once again; then, tucking the flower he had bought safely under his arm, he turned and left the store.

She took the paper flower and examined it, hoping to find some hidden meaning in the creases of the paper. But it was sloppily made, and fashioned from a sheet of old printer paper, unmarked by anything but ragged folds.

It had no scent to tease her senses, no silky petals under her fingertips. There were no vibrant colors to hold her eyes entranced. There was no glow of a bright new bit of life. If anything, it made the room more drab: a bit of folded paper, cluttering up her space.

Just a paper flower.

So pointless, really. It required no nurturing, and hardly any effort to create or destroy. After all that time the boy had spent in her flower shop, all his careful study of each flower's meaning, he had chosen to give her something with no meaning at all.

So she threw the paper flower away, not even bothering to shred or burn it.

She walked out into her shop, and picked a pure white rose, barely more than a bud. She inhaled its fragrance deeply as she took it back to her room, filled a vase with water, and set it in the middle of her table. The paper flower lay in the bin below it--the gift that wasn't a gift. Her white rose caught the light and glowed far brighter than paper ever could.

A gift to herself.