Lilies

Having submit both her contact details and forehead to scan for fever, she was approved for entry. The grocery list held in her mind, memorized in order of the aisles fades as she is overcome with a sudden romantic notion: “I will get flowers.”

Time no longer used to ponder the difference between peanut butter brands was now allocated for a new purpose- chose a bouquet that would dispel the sense of morbidity brought on by the virus. Having decided on mauve lilies, she perhaps chose un-wisely: these were the flowers she set on an alter, next to the books he so dearly loved and his watch that kept on ticking for years after.

But lilies flourish even in the heat of Singapore, she reasoned, where as roses need air-con, constant trimming and fresh water. Even after being cut, lilies bloom. And bloom they did, unabashedly. Each day she took a tissue to pluck out the pollen baring anthers from the revealing petals. The pollen stains like turmeric, and a long time ago, an ex-boyfriend had told her they were poisonous to dogs. She doesn’t know if that is true. Heck, she doesn’t even have a dog. She plucks off the pollen laden sacks, out of habit.

A lily has both female and male reproductive parts. It is what botanist call “a perfect flower.” Noticing the phallic like structure in the centre of the flower, erect and sticky, she blushes, overcome by a memory. But contrary to the look, the ‘stigma’ is a part of the lily’s female reproductive organ. The pollen sacks, conveniently called ‘stamen’ are of the male. What she was performing on the flower was, therefore, a sterilization.

“Why did I get lilies!?” Its oppressive perfume was already suffocating; it reeked of impermanence.
Pluck. Pluck.
“It’s a perfect flower,” she is reminded.

Pluck. Pluck.

A pure love.

Pluck. Pluck.