My husband and I wed before we knew if we were in love or not. It was a rash decision, absent of considering consequences that would follow the vows. Yet for six years, our marriage was abundant with love and growth.
On our first anniversary, Timothy brought me a bouquet of carnations that made the simple flowers dance with refinement. The next anniversary was followed by a single lily of the valley wrapped with a red velvet bow, left on my windshield before I left for work. Next came a potted sunflower that eventually outgrew the container and was planted by the kitchen window. Then there was a hydrangea for the garden, and a basket full of daisies. The sixth anniversary was the grandest though. The bouquet of calla lilies he bought me could hardly be contained by my largest vase in the house.
For years I was spoiled by the expensive blossoms, but then came our seventh year.
“Where are my freesias?” I asked as we sat in bed that evening. I had anticipated my gift for an entire year.
He put his book down and removed his glasses. “Where have my flowers been for the last seven years, Anna? Where have all of your gestures of love gone? If you want freesias, then go pick your own.”
With his admission, we sat in silence. An empty vase sat on my bed table.