Death is Life; What I Wish I Knew About Being a Florist

Being a florist is the ugliest and most honest job

Right before 2022 dawned upon the horizon, I lost one of my best friends forever. Even though we lived states apart, he was basically family. A few days after his death I realized “my life; it needs to change — now”. I needed it back. My heart couldn’t keep up with the speed of its own beat and my face was a piece of loose leaf paper, being crushed into a ball and uncrushed with every cry. There wasn’t anything to hold on to while losing family and friends continuously.

So, I impulsively decided to become a florist. “what better way to find solitude, to commemorate my friend. How relaxing; a restart”, I naively thought. Restarts and relaxation do not come that easily to me. Being a florist reminded me that life was unforgiving, that anticipating anything was setting yourself up. More importantly, life isn’t about expecting peace but finding it, and that finding peace was about accepting fate or the direction of the wind.

Fate looks like a man looking for white Orchids

As a florist the first encounter with facing astounding grief again was like a wound in my memory that would start to heal, and open up again. I was working a later shift with my colleague. Quiet, just the way I liked it, and something my mind was expecting. But then, a man, whose face was covered in distress, wandered into our line of sight. He looked like a lost child looking for his mother, only to be unknowing that his mother had left him there, stranded. Finally turning to us, he’d ask if we knew where the white orchids were, his voice weepy. It wasn’t like he was noticeably crying, but it was clear enough to notice he was trying his best to keep his composure.

My coworker gently told him, “they’re over there”, pointing to the white porcelain flowers standing tall. They were an eyesore — in bold and standing out. “Where?”, the man asked, even though his face was bent in the direction of them. He was slightly recoiling while his eyes were searching the ground. He didn’t want to see them. “They’re over there”, she repeated, softly, almost apologetically as she stretched her arms out harder. “oh”, he quietly said, as he brought his eyes towards the direction of the flowers, which was a confirmation that his loss is very much real and alive.

It stung. I wanted to reach out. I wanted to say I’m sorry, To force his eyes to meet mine. After he left it was quiet, not the type of quiet that I liked, but cold tense and uncomfortable. The type of quiet that’s a dreadful silence, which you find yourself in when you’re unable to sleep at night. During the silence I remember thinking what a strange flower to choose for a funeral, I had thought he was trying to be unique.

I awkwardly laughed a little about it, revealing my ignorance. Admittedly I don’t remember the rest of the conversation we had afterwards, but I do remember us trying to guess what type of death he was dealing with. A lover? His child? We didn’t know, but I had guessed it was someone, who if had left him forever, would have left a scar on the softest part of his heart. I’d later find out that white orchids represented an everlasting love, something meant to prove your eternal love for someone.

Flowers Meant Hope Not Promises

I remember a man who stood by our counter after making jokes that were met by my silence. He asked if we ever, as florists, wished customers were to pay here after I had told him customers could only ring products up by the register. He thought we’d be curious as to why customers were buying flowers. Judging by the over enthusiastic nature I’d say he was the type to talk a cashier’s ear off about something they didn’t care about.

He assumed we were curious and unsuspecting — something that bothered me. I told him, as a way to protect my ego, “no”, but I couldn’t get a read on why he was buying, and that also bothered me. I think he just felt like talking to someone, but I also felt like knowing — both in secret.

Months later, my senses started to get clearer, as clear as water could ever be. I’d started to pick up on why people were buying flowers depending on the haste or mood of the person, how much they were asking for, what they were wearing. I’d mostly listen to what they were hoping for, because people counted on the flowers as something that would lead to their hopes. Part of my job was bringing their hopes to life, which at the time I partially thought was ridiculous, but now I fully do.

I was just a flower salesperson; not Allah. People would tell me that their mother or father had died in response to me telling them that we were out of white roses, as if white roses were going to appear in my hands after. I told myself I was going to be a florist as if it was going to suppress my everlasting grief. I used to give the possibility of resisting fate a chance.

Though that’s an innocent and painful way of living, what I can resist is holding myself responsible for doing things that cannot be done in the name of fate. No matter how long a phone call is, I’ll probably not be able to fulfill the customers’ wishes of wanting an out-of-stock product.

I’d only gained the ability to imagine the scenes people would find themselves in with their flowers. Tear stained faces while a showering of white lilies rain down on a mother’s casket; she was allergic to lilies. A man sitting home with a one thousand dollar red rose arrangement not knowing his wife will ask to file a divorce that night. A man arrives at his new girlfriend’s house with wilted hydrangea that have been sitting in his car for way too long.

A girl placing a hand tied floral arrangement on her nightstand as twilight pours, wishing he’d talk to her again. A woman at her infant son’s grave and gently placing a small pot of orchids. A storm is emerging as it is windy, and she is being watched by an older teen boy who had placed a small pot of orchids on his mothers grave.

Buying flowers is an attempt and preface of conversation. They say “i’m sorry”, “i love you”, “im sorry, I love you”,“thank you”, “rest in peace” and so on. But working with flowers meant re-living the day my friend died over and over again. Living through days strewn with disappointment and further confirmations that I’ll never be able to know what a day might bring, even if I plan or hope for them.

Because we can’t decide fate even with the choices that we dedicate our hopes to. Ultimately, this is what I now know and find peace in. Ultimately I know that the only certain thing is death, and not life. Still, I can’t help but to think about all those people living and celebrating the dead, then dying themselves. How I too will be the buyer. Buying flowers in an attempt to say “Hello’’, “I love you”,”Rest in Peace”, Goodbye’”, “You Will be missed”.