The language of flowers. A story about women who live among flowers.

adncabrera (62)in #flowers • 6 years ago (edited)

Dear friends, I leave for your readings my translation of a story I wrote some time ago in Spanish.
I made a series of stories with fundamentally feminine perf¿sonages and this is one of them.
I hope you like it.
I am grateful.

_{Photo by me (LGPhoenix3)}

The language of flowers

She lived among flowers. He understood them and knew their language.
Since she was a child, her mother and Mrs. Rosa had taught her how to distinguish them. She knew why she should not put hydrangeas in a bridal bouquet, nor gladioli in a funeral wreath. Her formation had been her everyday life, and she remembered it as if she was contemplating it behind a very polished crystal.
The flower shop occupied the living room of the house and had extended into the hallway. Glicinia grew up with her parents, occupying the rest of the house, always immersed in floral emanations, which filtered a thin note of sweet plant decomposition.
"Glicinia," said her mother, that beloved voice she would never forget (with the years she had lost her face, but not her voice, ever), "is a little girl, a quinceañera, put on winter bells. The calla is for made women."
Her mother died too soon. Then Mrs. Rosa taught him how to make crowns for the dead.
Mrs. Rosa, who was a soul of sage, had accompanied her grief, as she passed chrysanthemums to her:
"For eternity", Glicinia, and take some parchita flowers from the courtyard, so that the Lord may have mercy on her; let us fit heliotropes here, for we will always love her, and glycines, because she liked them so much, and that's where your name came from."
They wept till they were dry. Then, two hard years of silence and mourning passed, and, upon arriving at the third from departure, Mrs. Rosa moved into the house and occupied the empty place in her father's bed. There were no bridal bouquets for Rosa and for Glicinia there were no major changes: Mrs. Rosa continued to be Mrs. Rosa, only that now she was for dinners. Her father managed to smile again. Glicinia skillfully managed the business and specialized in funeral services.
Clients often brought her photographs of their deceased and she made flower paradises that told beautiful stories: "you will always live with beauty, rhododendron because your smile will persist, peonies for you to find relief?"
At the time she told the story of Rosa, who had been good to her. She told it with sage twigs. And that of her father, whom she always loved less, with clovers.
One day, early in her life, she saw an unknown flower growing in the middle of the courtyard. "Who are you?", she asked. But he immediately understood that he had always known her name.