The Beauty of It All

Taking a step back, I pause to admire my handiwork. 12 nearly identical, blushing red roses lay amongst a couple of bundles of baby’s breath. An elegant bouquet for the wedding of one of our neighbors. It’s been a while since I was first trusted with flower arrangements, but my supervisor still suspiciously pokes my bouquet, convinced I’ve messed up. I hold my breath, as she harrumphs and sets them down. She nudges me towards the door, tossing her van’s keys at me.

“Go drive the van down to the farmer’s market, Ayna. Do not be late, Adwin is waiting to set up our booth,” my supervisor commands as I study my fingernails. I don’t mind working for my mother, but sometimes her uptight attitude annoys me. She knows I take my job seriously, especially since my parents make a significant part of their income from our florist shop.

I run out to the van, barely glancing at the blue sign that reads “AYNA FLORISTS”. It used to be the bane of my existence when my parents drove me to school in a van with my name looping on the side, but I don’t mind it much these days.

The inside of the van is clean, but blackened petals and leaves always decorate the floor. It smells like the inside of Bath and Bodyworks because my mother is obsessed with the place, spraying perfume inside the van religiously. I turn up the radio and floor it to the farmer’s market. While I personally believe that staying at the shop and sticking flyers up around town is enough to attract customers, my parents set up a stall at the farmer’s market early every Saturday, drumming up business and capturing clientele.

When I get to the booth, my hands are filled with bouquets and arrangements of all types. I set them on the stand that Adwin has decorated and go back for more. I pull out my parents’ crown jewel, the apple of their eyes, and the reason that people drive for an hour. Indian flowers. Americans enjoy their exotic beauty and their strong fragrance, while Indians use them in their celebrations. Gently collecting them in Home Depot buckets, I deposit them onto the stand, which is a table with a light blue cloth and wooden signs, adding to the aesthetic of the place. I pull my phone out of my jean pocket and glance at the time.

Thank God. I think to myself. I have a couple of minutes left to go grab something to eat before standing under the beating sun for hours.

“Hey Adwin, I’m gonna go get something to eat. You want anything?” I call out behind me.

“No, I’m okay.” I spin on my heel and walk in the direction of the lovely older couple that I know always come early to set up.

“Hey, Velma. Hey, Todd. How’s it going?” I ask as I approach their stand, “Sunnyside Sandwhiches”, known for its delicious cold sandwiches made from homemade bread and garden vegetables.