Potpourri
The day SOS asked me to marry him, he was very careful to get permission from my supervisor for me not to return to work after my lunch break. Because SOS knew that after the emotion and excitement of the events surrounding "the question" I would not be up for returning to work and the military style drilling I would endure.
And so after the romantic picnic that was only interrupted a handful of times by the docents who had first applauded us when we stepped out from the rose arbor where we had tried to gain some semblance of privacy from the doting senior citizens who had shadowed both our moves in the minutes leading up to the proposal, SOS promised all the surprises were over and I could return home, change out of my work clothes and heels and we would go find a park not populated by nosy docents.
But then, as I unlocked the front door, SOS squeaked "Um... so I forgot about the last 'big' thing." I dutifully promised that I would not be overwhelmed by whatever last surprise he had dreamed up and forgotten, and swung open the door.
A path of rose petals awaited.
Of course, such a display was horribly sweet, and I told him so all the long while that I tiptoed in and around the petals down the hall to my bedroom. "This is the surprise?" I gushed.
But I was too busy concentrating on not crushing any of the petals and thinking about how he had managed to cultivate enough of a relationship with my landlady to have her put down flowers on her clean floor, to hear his response, "Um, kinda."
And then I opened my door to kick off my shoes, and I was met by a wall of fragrance and more color than my room has ever seen.
Roses.
And Alstromelias.
And Roses. And Roses. And Roses.
A dozen vases lining my dresser and my closet and my bed and topping any flat surface I had managed to clean off the weekend before.
And now, nearly four weeks later, the fragrance still lingers. Because friends, when love gives you roses, make potpourri.
And so after the romantic picnic that was only interrupted a handful of times by the docents who had first applauded us when we stepped out from the rose arbor where we had tried to gain some semblance of privacy from the doting senior citizens who had shadowed both our moves in the minutes leading up to the proposal, SOS promised all the surprises were over and I could return home, change out of my work clothes and heels and we would go find a park not populated by nosy docents.
But then, as I unlocked the front door, SOS squeaked "Um... so I forgot about the last 'big' thing." I dutifully promised that I would not be overwhelmed by whatever last surprise he had dreamed up and forgotten, and swung open the door.
A path of rose petals awaited.
Of course, such a display was horribly sweet, and I told him so all the long while that I tiptoed in and around the petals down the hall to my bedroom. "This is the surprise?" I gushed.
But I was too busy concentrating on not crushing any of the petals and thinking about how he had managed to cultivate enough of a relationship with my landlady to have her put down flowers on her clean floor, to hear his response, "Um, kinda."
And then I opened my door to kick off my shoes, and I was met by a wall of fragrance and more color than my room has ever seen.
Roses.
And Alstromelias.
And Roses. And Roses. And Roses.
A dozen vases lining my dresser and my closet and my bed and topping any flat surface I had managed to clean off the weekend before.
And now, nearly four weeks later, the fragrance still lingers. Because friends, when love gives you roses, make potpourri.
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