Dahlia Dalliance

A deep red dahlia.

Someone brought me flowers.

Why this night? Did I become Ms. Universe? Well, maybe that didn’t happen. There must be a selection board. Or a panel of judges that make that decision. Nope, I didn’t win a pageant.

Did I nail my recital? Taking a graceful final bow, my right knee bent, my toe pointing stage right, my left leg trailing behind; bent at the waist with my arms floating above the air and my head lowered modestly? Nope. I wasn’t even performing.

Maybe I needed some appeasement? I didn’t even know that I was angry. In fact, I was experiencing no offense so there was no need for a spray of apologies. Nothing to forgive.

Perhaps it was a hallmark holiday? Looking at the calendar, the closest festival seems to be Flag Day. And that was a few weeks ago. Even on the personal calendar, there are no birthdays (not mine) or anniversaries (not mine). Nope. Not a marker of a day.

Am I sick, or even more serious, am I dead? Thankfully, no to both of those options. I feel great.

But still, there is a bouquet. It is in my hands, and it is so beautiful that it could have been flowers for someone else. But they were for me. And I am well.

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