Sometimes, a girl has to buy herself flowers,
the smell of them will fill the house,
she will like looking at them,
she will take pride in
arranging them,
she will like
how they light up the lonely kitchen,
how the morning sun falls on
each mysterious petal,
And while, like her mother before her,
she will outwardly laugh
at her lack of domestic charm
and mock the myth of romance
at home, alone,
one Saturday morning
she will buy herself flowers.
She will choose each one herself
(allowing for a nudge of self-pity)
She will take them home and arrange them, carefully
(feeling a little sheepish)
She will step back and admire them,
smell them,
and (pleased, at last)
she will evoke the spirit of her mother,
who, before her,
enjoyed buying herself flowers.
Subha M Wijesiriwardena 
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