Hugh Grant by Alyssa Solis

Hugh Grant carries a bouquet down an English road in muted colors on the TV in my home. All at once, I can recall the first time I was given flowers in a context so romantic and sweet. I can still smell their redolence so fresh and pristine. A middle school boyfriend had gifted them to me the morning I turned thirteen. Roses and chrysanthemums in soft pink and purple hues. I can remember my eyes welling up because I was just so incredibly moved. I remember how the colors matched my tinted hair. As I walked down the halls with two abundant bouquets, other students would stop, smile, and stare. 

I remember wondering if he had asked his parents to drive him to fetch this lovely gift. Had they gone out early that morning? Perhaps the night before? I remember wondering if he felt like Hugh Grant, strolling out of that flower store. 

I read somewhere that flowers last longer when given out of genuine love. As though devotion and endearment are what bloom the rosebuds. 

And empty promises wither quicker

Before you know it, the petals fall

The once sweet redolence becomes so bitter 

And reeks of vitriol

Every time I get given flowers, it breaks my heart to think I’d have to toss them away. Instead, I keep them, hang them, or press them on a page. I remember realizing my roses had begun to lose their baby pink shade, so I hung them upside down and watched them turn mauve with age

I can still remember, in perfect clarity, the image of the flowers when they first adorned my hands on that cloudy November day.

But it saddens me to think I can only vaguely remember the boy's face

Yet, as time has tested, his kind gesture remains forever ingrained

I can remember the boy saying, “I love you.” 

I remember, even then, thinking it was a lie

I hadn’t considered it could’ve been naive, but true

Because the flowers have remained, dried but intact & upright

All this time