I Steal Flowers

I steal flowers. Like every few days. 

You’re supposed to in a pandemic. 

From my window, I see concrete jungle. There is a garden next door, but I use the term loosely. My six-year-old calls it a ‘condo garden’. I don't know where she learned that one—we don't live in a condo. But does that give you a visual? 

Stealing flowers started on a whim, on a particularly tough covid-19 day in downtown Toronto. 

- - -

‘Those,’ my daughter says. 

The abandoned house on Huron Street has this wild bush of white flowers—the kind that are themselves made up of tiny ones. Their branches easily snap between my fingers.* When we walk away with a good handful, there is no bald spot left behind—perfect. 

It starts to rain as we're picking some wild grass. 

Then two great things happen on our three-minute walk home:

1) A woman stops, takes out her earbuds and says, ‘Wait. Girl, you stole some flowers and now you’re walking down the street with them?’ 

I like her immediately. She’s curious—not angry. 

‘Yeah, you have to! We need greenery in our homes right now.’

She agrees. We laugh. 

‘Good vibes, good vibes,’ she says and puts her earbuds back in.** 

I’d like to think there's a bouquet on her table that night.

2) We see Mrs. Lee sitting on her front porch. She’s one of those rare people who somehow manage to be incredibly bossy and likeable at the same time. I do whatever Mrs. Lee tells me to. I’ve been trying to tie her down for a cup of socially distanced tea but she won’t commit. 

‘What's that you got? Where did you get those from?’ she asks, so I tell her.

‘You wait,’ she commands. And we do. She’s gone inside, then soon comes out with a knife and chops down some flowers of her own. She puts them down for my daughter to take.***

My anxiety is allergic to chatting with neighbours, to cold rain on my bare shoulders, to flowers.

* Dopamine hit #1 

** #2

*** #3 (Hit #4 comes when I realize that Mrs. Lee has gotten a boost from giving away her flowers.)