Notes of Nature

Notes of Nature

Violet hovered over the bouquets, inhaling the unique scent of each before writing a note to tuck into one unbloomed flower — a message to be delivered only when nature allowed. In the case of carnation bouquets, like the last of today’s, she wrote messages of hope.

‘Blossom from the love of whom these flowers derive. 

Discover which conditions will help you thrive.

It may take time, but in the right soil, you’ll be revived.’

This has been Violet’s ritual since she rolled the dice and opened her floral shop five years ago when she was 26, accidentally anchoring herself to her hometown. She began writing them for her own enjoyment. It pleased her to elevate the novelty of the fleeting gift that is flowers. Initially, she assumed they’d go unnoticed, but after a few months customers began reveling in the sentimental pairing of poetry and peonies. 

Counteracting a gust of wind, she threw her hand over the stack of note cards, feeling their warmth from the rising morning sun above. Despite the breeze, a bead of sweat traced down Violet’s back. It wasn’t even noon- this was going to be the hottest day of Spring yet. Resenting her reluctant proximity to the equator, Violet grabbed her notes, pen, bouquets and went back inside her shop.

As she emptied the contents of her arms onto a table, she noticed a familiar bouquet on the front desk. Had she forgotten to send out one of her deliveries yesterday? That would be the first time all year.

As she approached, she noticed the corner of a small white paper nestled between the stems. She froze. That’s not where she puts her notes. Maybe it had fallen there by accident — but something about the way it sat, too deliberate and too pale, felt alien to Violet.

She checked the flowers for her own note, growing more confident that she had sent out this bouquet yesterday as she gently pulled at each flower. No note. She reached for the one in between the stems, shivering at the texture between her fingertips. She unfolded the paper.

‘Violet, My Flower,

Do you still believe in soft things?

Love,

O’

Violet dropped the note and stumbled back a step. That handwriting- the anchor of a shared boat in waters too calm. That question- once spoken from her lips that were wet from streaming tears.

She felt a warm lump in the back of her throat as her vision became misty. She reached for the note again, mouth still open in disbelief. She ran her fingers over the words, feeling the tracings of youthful love. She read it again. And again. Each time, the words pulled her further into the past.

Violet jolts at the sound of her door chime, surprisingly resistant to the present. She blinks away the subtle tears in her eyes before greeting her customer. The questions and urges bubbling at her surface would have to wait.

Violet impatiently tapped the mysterious note on the stem of her wine glass. She had just finished making dinner after canceling a date she agreed to the week before. Whether or not anything came from this note of nostalgia, it smothered her desire for anyone else like a blanket and sparked the pilot light she swore she’d shut off long ago.

Drawn to her pen by something familiar, she began to write.

‘O,

Why? Are you tired of the hard things?

-V’

The next day at the shop, Violet sent out a single violet flower with her note tied to it to the address she had sent the original bouquet. The address she’d fought not to search for. She knew if she did, she couldn't stop herself from knocking on the door. She dreaded learning he’d be leaving in days, still hungry for exploration. Or that he’d been here for months. Or worse — that he was in love. It had been too long to hold out for hope that if crushed again, she wouldn't survive.

Having been distraught this week, Violet stayed late at the shop Friday afternoon to catch up on next week’s bouquets. As she pulled apart a bundle of baby’s breath, her mind wandered — back to the first time she’d received them, in a corsage for prom. Smiling to herself, she placed each stem in the bouquet with care.

She paused, catching a shadow through the blinds. She thought it to be a customer seeing the lights and thinking her shop was open. She headed toward the door to let them know otherwise.

With her hand on the handle, she stopped — sensing a pull from the other side.

It was familiar. Intentional. All her doubts dissolved in its presence.

Basking in the magnetic force field she now knew she never wanted to escape again, she opened the door.