The First Bouquet

The stems came home clenched in a small fist, held too tight to stay whole. Petals bent, some already falling, lengths uneven where they’d been pulled instead of cut. Elin kept talking as she held them out, words tripping over each other, pointing at the smallest blossoms as if they mattered most.

Her mother took them carefully, not correcting anything. No sorting, no trimming back the damage. Just sitting together at the table, turning the little bundle between them, naming what they could and leaving the rest unnamed. Elin kept leaning in, checking if they were still all there.

They passed them back and forth for a while — counted, rearranged, gathered again. Later, after Elin had gone to bed, her mother kept the shape as it had been given to her, not trying to improve it, only to make sure it would stay.