Self Portraits with Flowers

Rose 1
It is late and I am surprised to see him (and ten others) standing at my door, holding a single rose (with two dozen more standing in five gallon buckets in their mothers' vans for other girls).

Daisies
I buy the flowers for Claire--small roses, small daisies--and ask for the ribbon to be pink. I buy the flowers for my brother to give to Claire because I want it to be in eigth grade, I want it to be opening night, I want to have the boy leave the flowers for me for good luck.

Mums
I hate the shiny wrapping leaning up against the granite. I hate the yellow and orange, the bushy heads bobbing in the wind, nodding to the angel who watches over another plot. When I die, don't leave flowers on my grave.

Rose 2
There are eight. Or were there nine? Not quite a dozen, more than half-a-dozen. A number that didn't make sense, even though I asked it to. White, heavy. I said no.

Lilies
I walk past them in the hall, running away from something I'm not ready to handle. She is arranging the lilies in a water bottle vase; he is handing her the flowers, clumsily holding their stems. I know the flowers are for me, know that they will be filling my flat with their heavy pollen smell, but I ignore them, willing to pretend surprise when they are delivered.

Rose 3
I live in the house for three weeks before I realize there are roses.

Alstromeria
I buy myself the flowers, to remember lilies without the scent. And I am willing to pretend, if you don't ask me, that they came from someone who has given me more than flowers.