Flowers and Thorns

When I was a man much younger than I am today, I once happened upon the rarest of sights, a beautiful red and black Poppy flower growing alone within an open field. But this was no ordinary field you see; this field stretched from our nation's Capitol all the way to President Lincoln's footstool, with a pillar erected to Washington somewhere in between.


Amidst the endless expanse of the National Mall, a single Poppy flower grew wild and free, its black and red petals illuminated by the sun to reveal a beauty unrivaled by even the monuments surrounding it. On a cold December day in 2008, I plucked this flower for myself and marveled at its beauty. I held it close, became intoxicated by its pleasant aroma, and quickly developed a genuine love for this blossoming flower whose simple presence lifted my spirits.


But as time went on, a terrible thing happened. I became complacent. I became inattentive. I neglected this beautiful Poppy flower, never watering it or letting it blossom in the sun, until it slowly wasted away. Its red and black petals, once as vibrant in color as a soaring eagle silhouetted against the blood red sky of the Albanian flag, now drooped and longed for the attention that I cruelly withheld. The flower begged for only a single drop of water, that it may be revitalized and reclaim a semblance of its former beauty, but I in my indifference I would not oblige. I let the flower die, and with it a future that could have been so very bright.


Years passed. From time to time I would think of the Poppy flower, how its beauty once brightened my day and made me smile. At first I paid these thoughts little regard, but as time passed these memories began to occupy more and more of my waking moments until the day arrived when I finally realized the error of my ways. Like a bolt from the heavens the realization hit me. All at once everything became clear. I loved the Poppy flower, this most beautiful creature in my life that had given me such happiness. I loved her...yet now it was too late.


I rushed home to find the forgotten Poppy flower than I had discarded so long ago. In desperation I tore through my house until at last I found a broken pot filled with dried dirt and the withered stem of a once beautiful creation. Its glorious red and black petals had long since fallen away and in their place remained only wisps of leaves that were as brittle as onion skin. I held the flower close, mourning over its loss at my hands as tears flowed from my eyes and watered the soil. For days I cried until at last every last tear had been wrung from its ducts and turned the dried potting soil into mud.


Whether it was from the resilience of the Poppy flower to remain alive or some magic contained within the love of my fallen tears I do not know, but as I looked into the flower pot I saw the tiny flower begin to grow. First a single green sprout began to emerge, followed by a few tiny leaves. Next the stem grew higher and higher until finally a kaleidoscope of red and black petals burst forth into the sunlight and filled my eyes with a beauty such as I had never seen. My Poppy flower had arisen from its grave, even more beautiful than before, its new life granted by the unconditional love I had bestowed upon it.


But as I reached out my hand to touch its beautiful petals, my finger was pricked by a thorn that jutted sharply from its stem. Blood poured from the open wound and dripped onto the flower's petals so that I could not tell whether its red color stemmed from its natural beauty or my pain. In horror I watched as the Poppy grew thorn after thorn to protect itself from my touch, preventing me from drawing closer lest I feel its pain again. Within a few moments, the beautiful red and black petals disappeared behind a veil of thorns, never again allowing me to see their beauty or touch their soft skin.


I wept when the beautiful flower turned away from me. I wept when you turned away from me Ornela. Please do not go down this path you are on. Please do not shut me out of your life. Do you not understand how close we are to something wonderful? I made a promise to you that I would never hurt you again, and it is a promise I will never break. Please pull back your thorns and stop hurting me. I love you Ornela.