Sometimes the world just needs flowers.

My mother used to say that as she clipped flowers from her garden and set them in a vase to give to a neighbor or friend. Her arrangements were always perfect, like her tinctures—beautiful, tailored to the person to whom the gift would be given. In all her years of giving flowers, I don’t think she ever received any in return. Except from my father, he brought her flowers every week from the market, even though they could never compete with her garden.

But that didn’t matter; they were always the most perfect flowers to my mother. Because they were from my father and his love for her made them magic. At least, that’s what I thought when I was young and breathed in their scent and their soft illumination in the night.

Now they were both gone and I arranged flowers in a world that was oblivious to their beauty and their magic.

I looked down at the yellow daisies and peach-yellow roses that I had placed in the vase. It wasn’t as perfect as my mother’s, but I still had hope that one day they’d glow.