That Evening With Flowers

“Would you like to go for a walk?

"Where?"

I will take you to the flowers.”

She smiled when I asked, because it felt as if I was joking. She always felt that the place with flowers was more like an open gate, waiting for us to step through and feel the togetherness, an opportunity to be with nature.

That evening, when we entered Floriade, it felt so cute, a feeling of soft, tender love. When we walked in, a golden light spread all around us. We felt better as we walked further along the garden paths.

“Yeah, this mini train is circling all around us and crossing our path every few minutes.”

The noise of the crowd thinned out with every step as we left them behind, until all that was left was the crunch of gravel and the shy murmur of flowers touching each other in the light breeze.

Somewhere, a man coughed close to us, twice, maybe thrice, but then we moved away from him. Then we felt as if the air was full of a strange smell of tulips. It felt, for a moment, as if the world was nothing but flowers. In that moment, everyone seemed careful and lowered their voices so we could listen to the flowers talk.

You walk a few steps as if leading the way into a story or a poem you are writing in your head and planning to publish at a later stage.

Here the path curves gently, and suddenly we are among lilies of different colors. This time they are orange, the flowers glowing like little suns fallen right in front of us.

A couple passes us, hand in hand, and their whispers make us smile. In the air, the sharp, scent of the flowers rises.

As I saw a lady trying to touch a flower but then pulling her hand back. She glanced back with an apologetic smile, as if she was caught trying to steal something.

Sometimes I feel that flowers listen better than people. The question hangs between us, light and serious at the same time. Ahead, a row of yellow tulips over the path looked like our friends trying to overhear us. Their petals were perfect, so we smile at them and move ahead.

I feel I have forgotten all my pain, as each flower, no matter what color, seems to hold a quiet dignity, as if they know beauty is not about lasting forever but about being fully present for the time onlookers watch them.

We slow down near a bed of white tulips, where the air suddenly changes, becoming a little too rich, sweeter, almost thick enough to taste. I close my eyes for a moment, and all my senses feel it to the core.

In that moment, my lungs fill with fragrance, my heartbeat matching the rhythm of distant wings. When I open my eyes again, there is a softness, as if the flowers have rearranged something inside me.

The path becomes a little more crowded as the time to leave the show forces us to walk closer together. On the left, a couple is trying to take selfies. A bunch of kids is running in the seating area. We stand there, spellbound in the fading light.

On the right, a neat row of white tulips stand like a line of schoolchildren. I just laughed at my thought. I saw a wild celebration on one side, composed ceremony on the other, and say it reminded me of swinging moods, swinging between overflowing and disciplined.

“That’s true.” The flowers believe and accept the comparison without comment, in a polite way. I stop close to a small pink lily as if I wanted to pluck it, but then I changed my mind and leave it.

Even a flower can read your mind. As I look at that small, tender flower, he seems to listen to me, and read my thoughts. Yes, I saw him smiling.

A pair across the path in front of us is arguing about something urgent, and then they grin as though they have just confirmed a private theory about the world of flowers.

As the light begins to thin into blue, we come to the gate of flowers. I do not want to leave, but it is time for the night session. I cannot stop thinking about these flowers, growing in a gap between the manicured beds of all colors, purple, yellow, white, red and even the blue.

Perhaps I stood there longer than usual, looking at them, when I heard her say quietly, “These yellow ones are my favorites.

“They bloom without permission.” There was pride in her voice, and maybe a hint of longing.

When we finally turned back, the garden had grown dim, but only for a while, because the night flower show has more lights and it makes everything even brighter.

We walk in comfortable silence towards the car park, carrying with us the fragrance and the courage of blossoms. At the gate, we look back once, as if to make sure the flowers remember us.

“Thank you for allowing us to walk among you, flowers,” I say. To you, it may sound like a simple farewell, but for me it has another meaning: thank you for letting us step into this great experience.

The evening sun is smiling at us as we leave, but a bright light stays lit inside me. It is a small, steady bloom that will not easily fade from my memory.