Lovers’ Teachings No. 1

There are flowers that bloom once every twelve years. At our University museum, there was one such plant, expected to bloom, finally, two months in the future. There were advertisements all over campus announcing the event; they expected such a large turnout that they sold tickets for designated blocks of time the days the flower would be full. That was all—twelve years of dormancy, two days to display. After that, the flower begins to wilt.

So he bought us tickets, and we anticipated the flower’s arrival. But that was folly; two months isn’t so long, really, in the grand scheme of twelve years. I never saw it. We didn’t speak the words, but the invitation was rescinded, and by then it was too late to buy a ticket myself. To the flower, it didn’t matter that my eyes did not perceive it. It bloomed, wilted, and receded on its own. It would have done so with or without me.