Thistles

 

Thistles

Do you know the language of flowers for the thistle?

Wasn’t “jealousy” one of them?

Ah, so it wasn’t. I could have sworn I saw “jealousy” listed in some book a long time ago. Well, it’s the language of flowers, so I suppose it’s perfectly fine for there to be various interpretations. Yesterday, as I was walking along the roadside, a crimson thistle blooming there turned toward me, pleading, “Pick me and decorate your room with me.” So, I did exactly that. It is beautiful, but the flower truly has thorns and must be handled with care.

Actually, a few days ago on the train, I spotted a woman who was exactly my type. She looked to be about 18 or 19 years old. For context, I am 65.

During those brief five minutes, a bittersweet feeling crossed my heart — the realization that I would likely never cross paths with her again. I have a wife who is one year older than me, and common sense dictates that I could never bring myself to speak to her. At that moment, I also thought to myself, “She is probably (and this is strictly a guess) a first-year university student who moved here from the countryside. Since she is such a beauty, even if she doesn’t have anyone right now, she won’t be lacking for suitors.”

Because I believed the language of flowers for the thistle was “jealousy,” I couldn’t help but stop in my tracks when that thistle smiled at me, and so I brought it home. Given my age, common sense, and of course, the fact that I am married, she is entirely out of my reach. And there, literally, was “jealousy” toward the nameless young man who would eventually hold that flower.