I don't know much about flowers except that they're beautiful. Maybe if I thought hard enough I could, but at the moment, I can't even name a flower I don't like. In fact - I can't name many flowers. I've heard some of my friends call them 'snowdrops'� and 'morning glories,'� but to be honest, I don't know many by name. I've probably seen them. And if I like them well enough, I might know their name, too. But not usually.
Some people know what flower they would be, if they were to be reduced to plant form. One claims he would be an orchid. Another says poppies are her forte. Still others will claim sunflowers and red-tipped roses as their own, or tiger lilies. (I have a flower for myself, too, but that's not the point of my story. My point is that many people I know are well-versed in their botany, but I'm very broken in that speech.)
So the flower I'm going to describe to you now is going to remain nameless, since I don't know its true name.
But all I remember is this: I was eight, and the flowers were orange. I was also in California - not Northern, but Southern California. I was visiting my cousins' house.
As are most things in California, everything was a shade borrowed from the sun. Oranges, terra cottas, off-whites, and half-cylinder shingles were scattered no matter what direction you looked. And palm trees. My, there are a lot of palm trees there. I remember the urge to climb one being so strong, as well as the frustration knowing I couldn't do it. To try and hug one was like pressing up against a nail bed, its rough bark being as it was. Climbing was out of the question.
I was staring out the window at all this Californian splendor when my aunt approached me and pointed to the flowers sitting on the windowsill. 'Those will close up at night,'� she informed me.
'The petals?'� I asked.
'Yes.'�
Maybe she continued to talk about them, maybe she walked away; I don't remember. But I do know that I was fascinated. You can call me sheltered, but I had never seen such a feat. I always thought of plants, flowers included, as such dependant little things. If you watered them, gave them enough sun, maybe they would decide to grow. Only then would they be beautiful. I thought of them as impatient, whiny. If they didn't get exactly what they wanted, they would curl up, shrivel, and die.
But the news from my aunt gave me the notion that perhaps these flowers were something more. That they had somewhat of a sense. Of course they couldn't talk or eat spaghetti, but they could close their petals at night. I had to see it first hand.
Even though I busied myself throughout the day with other child-like activities - playing outside, immersing myself in Beauty and the Beast - I greatly anticipated the closing of the petals.
In passing, I saw them in the evening. They were seemingly smaller than they had been at midday. But not closed. I went and played Monopoly.
I came back again. They were about halfway this time. I shoved another movie into the VCR.
I returned once more after brushing my teeth. The sun had gone down, and the oranges and reds of California's daytime were no longer visible from the window. And the petals were entirely closed, as if they hadn't been in bloom at all.
Even now I don't know what I mean by this. But somehow, I want to be like those flowers. I want to close my petals at night. I want to have a sense of when to show my beauty and when to close. I want to give others an infectious draw to me. I want to be, as Jon Kerouac had it, a Roman candle. I want everyone to wait for me to open up, and when they see me in the sky, I want them to go, 'Aw.'�
And true to their schedule, the mysterious orange flowers opened up the following morning.

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