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A sweetheart of a man brought me flowers at work today. Unexpected, full of life and color; the bouquet and the man.

The connection of women and flowers is a long and historic one. The connotation of each flower, the giver and the way it is given are as varied as the women themselves.

I chide my younger male co-workers for not giving their women flowers; spontaneous flower gifts, not bouquets given as a floral apology. You know, the kind of flowers that are given on a rainy (or sunny) Tuesday that basically say, “I was thinking of you”. The younger co-workers assure me that their women do not care about not getting flowers, to which my response is, “Yes, but what if you gave them anyway?”

What if, indeed?

Looking at my bouquet in a vase on the desk, the general feeling in me is to give. The upwelling of generosity, the desire to please and return the happiness those humble blooms give to me, the thought that I would do anything for that man if he asked me to, each petal as a token dropping in the slot to keep the gears of love and kindness running smoothly in my heart.

Priceless stuff. And so simple. And so kind.

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