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Fresh flowers are an intimate indulgence; inexpensive clusters of personal favorites a simple joy. I’m grateful for the luxury of this weekly whim of sunshine on my window ledge. The colorful distraction is a smile that pulls at my attention as I sweep through daily tasks. It is a small kindness to myself, a doting attentiveness for my home, an uninhibited appreciation for a modest beauty.

I am familiar in my choices; seasonally and sentimentally. Today, in anticipation of Easter, I lingered over the colorful exuberance of perky blossoms begging a broader canvas than the tightly packaged company of their neighbors. I hesitated between favorites seeking a color and bud that whispered of childhood Easter eggs and the sweetness of forgotten traditions; little girl bonnets and the stillness of Sunday service.

Then, I remembered my daughter’s face just yesterday as she swept through the front door with two bundles of carnations, contrasting shades of pink highlighting a prideful blush as she gushed over the care with which she choose her bouquets. They weren’t my choice and I promised myself a tiny concession; planning my morning errands to facilitate this moment among quiet friends.

Mentally I gathered my bundle, already nesting them in place in my mind’s eye. Juggling vases and rearranging. My choices kept drifting to my daughter’s blooms, trying stubbornly to compliment her choice with my own. I saw her disappointment as I rearranged and suddenly my choice was more complicated.

I recognized my daughter’s unpretentious heartiness in the carnations’ blossoms. I heard the same language of care and choice, celebration and ceremony that are quiet hallmarks of our home. This Easter I am choosing my daughter’s expression of beauty and creating a new memory, honoring the care with which she made her choice and the joyful practice of picking flowers.