Words are sometimes unsteady in the tongue but dead. I’m sorry flowers must do the heavy work apologies are incapable of. One flower can speak of regrets, harbor regrets, and even help remove some dogged wrinkles in relationships. Flowers interfere with stuttering sentences. They form their own language, older than ink on paper and gentler than upraised voices.
Consider roses. The color red tends to shout romance, but a light pink is capable of mourning. White roses? They have the pose of silent watchdogs of earnestness, with a sort of truthfulness that no wordy description can equal. Purity is added through lilies. They flung out their petals like open hands, saying, “I am crazy. I said this.” And there is the daisy, plain as a child-drawn line, which is innocent.
Consider giving orchids when the wrong seems greater. They are so elegant, yet not weak. An orchid does not simply apologize—it says, “I would like to make this right, although it may take us a long time.” Tulips, however, are pleasingly direct. Yellow tulips unstrain, red tulips strike, and white tulips bow in submission.
There is also the jocular decision. Sunflowers. Large, exaggerated, unashamedly vivid. To give them is almost to arrive with a sheepish smile and say, “Yes, I blew it.” But I’m here, and I want to fix it.” In some cases humor is its own dressing.
The only specialty of flowers is that they are silent and talk at the same time. You can put them on a table, and they will keep talking long after you have left. They do not insist, and they do not quarrel. They are merely lost in the form of remorse and hope sewn together.
The gimmick is not to drown an individual with a garden. It’s about choosing with care. A single flower may have as much significance as a bunch of flowers. And in that little movement, regret is turned to something visible, something fragrant, something alive.