My Garden Has No Flowers

People sometimes ask why there are no flowers in my garden.

It’s a reasonable question.

The soil is good.

The sun in Mandurah is enthusiastic.

There's plenty of fresh water flowing.

In theory, the place should be overflowing with colour.

Frangipanis.

Daisies.

Something elegant climbing along the fence.

Instead, my garden contains a suspicious number of bare stems and the occasional flower bud that has so far escaped detection.

This is not a gardening failure.

This is a boy situation.

Two boys, specifically.

Nathaniel and Westley have both taken it upon themselves to manage the distribution of flowers in our household.

Their motivations, however, are very different.

Nathaniel does it because he believes, deep in his bones, that it is his God-given responsibility to make Mum smile.

He takes the role seriously.

Sometimes I’ll walk into my room and find that he has quietly arranged something on the dresser.

A little glass.

A flower carefully placed inside.

And beside it, a note written with all the seriousness of a young man handling important business.

I luv yo.

Which, for the record, is perfect spelling when the message is correct.

No announcement.

No fanfare.

Just a quiet act of kindness waiting to be discovered.

Nathaniel does not require applause for this work.

It's simply who he is.

That boy has the biggest heart!

Westley, meanwhile, has studied this system.

Westley has noticed that flowers make Mum happy.

Westley has also noticed that flowers can be extremely useful in moments of… negotiation.

For example, the other afternoon I was sitting in the spa with a cold drink when Westley wandered over carrying a frangipani.

He looked very pleased with himself.

Without saying a word, he carefully placed the flower directly into my drink.

Now technically this ruined the drink.

But it did create something that looked like a tropical cocktail in a beach resort.

Westley stood there proudly.

“For you, Mum.”

Which is the exact tone someone uses when they know they have just secured immunity for at least ten minutes.

I have to credit him for putting the work in.

He will wander through the grass until he finds the brightest possible yellow flower, pluck it with great care, then run back holding it like treasure.

“Mum!”

He stretches out his little hand, offering it with absolute confidence that this is the correct way to operate in the world.

And honestly?

It is.

Between the two of them, the house slowly fills with flowers.

On the dresser.

On my keyboard.

Floating in drinks.

Occasionally crushed in small fists during the delivery process.

Outside, however, the garden continues to suffer heavy losses.

Every bloom that appears is immediately identified as a gift opportunity.

Small offerings in the long and ongoing mission of making Mum happy.

And if that means my garden never gets to keep its flowers for very long…

Well.

I suppose that’s the price of happiness 🌼