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Flower Delivery USA
 “Lunch break is over” the farm manager calls out. “Get those buckets filled; it’s picking time!”
It’s the call we dread. We hear it every day. The stems of our sisters, brothers, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends are cut, and these family members and acquaintances get carried away, never to return. Where do they go?
What does it mean when the workers say that it’s time for another flower delivery? USA is huge, my friend tells me. He arrived in our field on a south easterly when he was just a tiny seed, and says that others drifting on the same air current had come from all over USA. My friend is one of the lucky ones. All flowers that arrived here from the sky, and grow here in this field, get to live quite a long time before they are plucked. Unfortunately the rest of us get to see them carried off to the edge of the field where they all get piled together and burnt!
 I arrived in this USA field after being taken out of a packet full of flower seeds very similar to me. I think they’re my family. I was pushed down into the moist ground, and then it became very wet all around me. I panicked for a while, but then the most wonderful thing happened: I crept up out of the soil, and grew rapidly every day, ever closer to the beautiful blue sky and warm sun. I can’t walk like those terrible workers that tear through our field picking us, but I grew many soft arms in wonderful colors. I hear the workers call my arms petals.
My petals quiver with fear now as I see a worker a little too close to me for comfort. Oh no! There goes my brother. Plucked and put in a bucket with the other flowers freshly picked.
No luck for me this time. I feel a slight tingle as sharp metal slices my stem. It doesn’t hurt that much. What hurts more is the sound of my parents calling out to me: “Goodbye our little angel, we love you…”
This can’t be happening. I know it happens everyday, but I thought that somehow I would never get picked. I’m not sure if the droplets on my petals are from the water in the bucket or from my tears.
I’m taken to a truck, and as I’m hoisted up to join the other flowers in all the buckets in the back of the truck, I notice the words “Flower Delivery USA” on the side of the truck, and even though I’m so upset, I realise I’m finally going to know what the words mean.
I haven’t seen a human woman before, just the male workers in the flower field, but in the room where I’m put with the other buckets of flowers taken off the delivery truck, there’s a woman with a sweet voice answering the telephone all the time. “What is the address for your flower delivery? USA? Where in USA?” Sometimes the woman’s voice sounds sad, and at other times it has a sound like the laughing trickling stream near our field, even though the words she says on the phone are the same each time.
Next thing I know, I’m picked up and put with some flowers from a few other buckets. We’re placed in some shiny wrap and a gold ribbon is wrapped around to keep us all neatly together.
Before long, after another trip in another truck, we are handed over to a little girl to carry us. She walks along quiet corridors that have odd smells, and she’s crying quietly. She approaches a pale looking woman in a bed, who looks just as sad as the little girl. “Here, Mommy,” she whispers, “Daddy helped me get these flowers just for you to make you feel better.” The woman takes us into her arms and brings her face close to just one flower in the centre of the bunch…me! She smells me and her face lights up and she smiles and thanks her little girl. The little girl is now also smiling.
I’m smiling too. I’m finally at peace.
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