Tulips

A Story by Raschel

The fate of tulips that bloomed in early spring.

The green leaves of the delicate flowers feel cold on my damaged hands. It is a surprise to see flowers at such a time, when the weather feels gray, and the only color you’ll see going outside is the purplish red of frost-bitten cheeks. Due to the mighty winds which have been roaring outside for the past week or so, the rough skin of hands is covered in small wounds. Having walked through the door cheerfully, he keeps talking, interrupting himself with humored giggles and I simply nod. Meanwhile his voice merges with the soothing buzzing of the lamp and the clacking of claws upon the wooden floor. Looking at the curly ball of hair, it would be hard to detect the features hinting on its doggish nature. Still gazing upon the magenta-colored petals, I hurry into the kitchen to release them from their white rubber bands. Lazily I tug at them, hoping that they’ll have mercy and give in. However, the only response to this gentleness is a slap as I carelessly let go of the string’s end. Eventually I gather the scissors from the counter and feeling the approaching victory I cut the white lines, which in turn sets the fragrant bouquet free.

Abandoning the chaos to which I am the sole creator, I turn away to fetch the cylindric vase made of glass. Its geometrical shape glistens as it reflects the light coming from the glowing clouds. With a silent rumbling the vessel becomes heavy as it is filled with cool water and with a melodic ringing it meets the kitchen counter. One by one, the stems are met by icy water. The leaves fold onto themselves like fabric of an elegant dress. Admittedly, it is a dress that has seen better days, being ripped in places and disorderly facing every direction imaginable, occupying more space than modesty would allow. In a vulgar manner, the bouquet grabs onto the edges of the vase and clutches its outside. Quickly the tulips climb onto each other, passively yearning for the cool water underneath. Like the great waves in Hokusai’s paintings, they risk tumbling down onto the floor or into the sink.

Despite this ever-growing tension, they stay still, swaying slightly from the wind that successfully broke in. Yet their heads, heavy of seasonal sorrow, bow towards the ground. And so, they are stuck in between of the realms, bowing not only out of sorrow, but out of compliance with the universe.

Shakingly, they are set on the desk. A consolation, for now they majestically look down at the objects scattered underneath them and at me, facing them with tired eyes. Their smell has conquered the atmosphere of my room, reeking from all corners. A smell of sweet freshness, of a new beginning perhaps?

Several petals drop dead on the desk for me to clean them away. Hesitantly I reach out in an attempt to clean them away, to return the tranquility of the scenery laid out on my desk, but I stop myself abruptly as my mind reaches a decision. Today I shall allow the decay to be visible, I shall allow for the tulips to cry their last tears. To scream, to convulse in rage, to woe �" all that I shall allow for today.

From tomorrow on, they’ll be a cheerful decoration, sitting on the desk and bathing in their slowly fading beauty. Once it fades completely, they will become a waterfall of havoc finally embracing the long-due freedom, never to be seen again.