I have told you stories about the flower hoarder before darling, so you know that, although she is not drowning in lilies, as the villagers say when they are gossiping on the benches of the piazza, she is nonetheless, bound to her house which is filled with flowers wherever you decide to rest your eyes.
I often catch her people — the old man and woman who look as old as time — throwing hoards of dried up flowers out on most days. They would always go back into the house carrying bunches of freshly cut peonies, roses, carnations, tulips and lilies of different colours.
There is something very tragic about flowers. They remind me of Keats; of youth and beauty. Their time is so temporary, even here in the village where time is relative. Such beauty cannot be sustained for very long, and that makes flowers sweeter, when death is imminent.
The life of flowers is so short it renders their beauty more evident. It is more wanted because it is not here to stay. The flower hoarder has seen so many of them come and go. They arrive looking bold and defiant and they leave her frail and faded.
Time is seen passing through the degeneration of flowers in the house of the flower hoarder. The latter has relished in the temporariness of their short life for an immeasurable time now, and yet, there is not a wrinkle on her face.
Story credits: Image via Vivienne B.