by Krystle

Created on: December 08, 2008

Sending flowers was like sending a message; each one has a different meaning to it. Roses symbolise love. Carnations are for fascination, pride, and beauty. Tulips were mostly declarations of love. Daffodils for the chivalry of men, and of course, lilacs are connected to youthful innocence. People like flowers because they're mostly pretty, they smell nice, and they can be used to gain advantage in certain positions like during an argument. The part about flowers that people love is the receiving part. People feel nice when they are sent flowers, no matter how bad the flowers might look. They feel appreciated, pacified, or maybe even loved.

Personally, I feel that flowers help people get away with things. What happens when a man spends most of his time at work, comes back half-dead at night, and leaves even before sun comes up? He sends his wife flowers. What happens when someone misses an important function for something else they deem slightly more important? They send flowers. What happens when someone makes a mistake, and is too afraid to apologise face to face? Exactly. They send flowers.

But for me, I get flowers when my father doesn't come back to town to see me because he has yet another business deal that was always someplace really far. I get flowers when my father misses another birthday or holiday that we'd have all normally spent together, before my mother's death. I usually dump all of flowers. I knew they were just excuses. Besides, they would all die in a week or so, and I didn't see the point of keeping them. I smell them once, maybe twice, but they always end up in the trash before the day is over. It wasn't always like that, though.

I snapped out of my train of thought when I heard my best friend, Wayne snap his fingers next to my right ear. I really had to stop doing the whole staring into space thing. It was always odd when people noticed.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "What were you saying?"

Wayne rolled his eyes as he took a sip of his iced tea. Then I remember we were at the diner near school in Prestwich Hills, having pancakes. "I was telling you that I haven't finished my literature assignment. I asked if I could come over so you can help me."

I sighed. "Help you or do it for you?" I asked. Wayne could never get any literature work done by himself. He would have dropped the subject had it not been mandatory for his coveted profession.

"Well, is it my fault that you're a very deep knowledge well when it comes to literature?" He replied, pointing

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