With the language of flowers: Let flowers speak

'Maybe I'm just imagining it all. At least that's what Werner says.' Carla crossed her legs and stirred her coffee morosely with her left hand.

Her friend, sitting opposite her, raised her eyebrows in amusement. 'Flower language? Come on, Carla. The garden is just a harmless quirk of an older woman.'

'It's not', said Carla. 'It started out harmless enough. You know, welcoming the new neighbours with a homemade cake. Then she would ring the doorbell every now and then to bring us something nice from the garden.'

Ignoring her friend's incredulous and slightly condescending look, Carla carried on talking. 'As soon as you sat outside in spring and summer, she was always busy, pottering around the flowerbeds and bushes with her tools from morning until night. That's exactly why she didn't miss much. She started saying nasty little things to me. She had once seen me put pizza in the oven. She said: Oh yes, those ready meals are so convenient, aren't they? I prefer to put in the effort and prepare a proper meal. Werner said he prefers good food too, but it's not possible with a working wife. We had a huge row about it, believe me.'

'That wasn't very clever of him', said Hanna. 'He doesn't have a problem with you working, does he?'

'Well, things were pretty hectic at work for a while. My colleague was off, so I often came home late. He never said anything to me, though. It was only when that wicked snake arrived. I still get angry when I think about it. Anyway, then the invitations started coming in. While I was standing there, she said more than once: So you can get something proper to eat. Then she brought up another issue: If you're a pharmacist, is that a job for a woman? There's no talking to Werner about it, though. He says I'm being hysterical and that I just have a problem with him getting on well with someone else.'

'You don't believe that, do you?', whispered Hanna, leaning forward.

'No, not that. She's over sixty. But she's single and trying to take over a family. She gave Juliane a poetry album. A poetry album!'

Carla rolled her eyes, and Hanna burst out laughing. 'It's not funny, Hanna. The little girl was thrilled, and now it's all the rage in her class. She's eleven and easily excited. Then the old woman taught her about the language of flowers.'

'What's that?', giggled her friend.

'Well, it depends on what kind of flowers you give someone. They have different meanings. Roses stand for love, but the colour is very important. Anyway, she was complaining about my garden until Werner said that I could do better. He always mows the lawn on Saturdays, even though he's supposed to be off work. Now he wants me to weed the garden, too. I'm just not good at that, goodness me. I work too, and my children want to spend time with me at the weekend. To top it all off, she actually helped him in the garden last Saturday morning while I was at the chemist's, as my boss had asked me to go.'

Hanna was now listening intently. Satisfied, Carla continued her story. 'You can't imagine how angry I was when I got home. She had made lemonade for Werner and the children, and left a little gift for me on the garden bench. For you, my dear, she said, so you can see what's hiding behind the bushes. Her stupid giggling was probably meant to make it seem like a joke, but the bundle of nettles spoke a different language.'

'A different language? What do you mean? Do nettles have a special meaning?'

'They do', said Carla grimly. 'They mean: I've seen through you. The next day, I received a pot containing a columbine.'

'I don't even know what a columbine looks like. What does it mean?', asked Hanna, wide-eyed.

'It was supposed to tell me', Carla paused for a moment before continuing. 'It was supposed to say: You're a weakling. Yes, and since then, Werner and I have hardly spoken to each other without arguing. Sometimes he and the children even eat at her place. After all, she just wants to take my work away from me.'

Carla said the last part in an exaggeratedly sweet tone, making Hanna laugh. 'Yes, and what are you going to do?', she asked.

'I don't know exactly yet, but it's time I set the record straight.'

Exactly fourteen days later, the two women were sitting together in a café. It was a meeting that Carla had invited her friend to spontaneously.

'So?', asked Hanna after they had both ordered. 'How are things with you? Did the flowers speak, or is there silence in the garden? You look good. What happened?'

'What happened? Well, the old lady hasn't been in touch for at least a week. There have been no invitations, and no lunch for my family. And no flowers. To top it all off, I heard from the caretaker that the Flower Fairy wants to move to Hamburg to be with her kids.'

'I don't believe it! How did you manage that?'

Hanna's eyes widened with excitement, causing her to forget all about her coffee. Meanwhile, Carla leaned back and relaxed. Then she said with a satisfied smile: 'First, I casually mentioned the poison cabinet that I have access to as a trained pharmacist. Then I let the flowers do the talking as a thank you, you know. As a small token of my appreciation for her kindness, I gave the old lady a poinsettia, a Christmas star.'

'Yes, but what does that mean?'

'It's a spurge plant, Hanna. And it's poisonous. Clear language, no frills. And she understood.'

© 'With the language of flowers: Let flowers speak': A short story by Pressenet (translated by Izabel Comati), 07/2025. Image credit: Winfried Brumma (Pressenet).