Novel & Cerita Book Chrysanthemum

"It's huge." She nodded. "I wanted it big. Wanted the reminder. Needed the reminder." I looked at her in the mirror. "What do the flowers symbolize?" "Chrysanthemums represent rest and recovery after a long trial or challenge, enduring life and rebirth, and support from family and loved ones." Her face wrinkled up. "I'm speaking here of the Amatuccis." I chuckled. "Gotcha. And the dahlia?"

Vernon had returned, looking exhausted. He was even holding a bouquet of fresh flowers. He walked toward me with no trace of guilt or remorse. "Avril, I brought you your favorite roses." Red roses represented sincere and passionate love. Right now, those flowers looked like a joke in Vernon's hands. I accepted the roses. Thinking that I was no longer angry, Vernon began to explain. "It's Peggy Cahill. She's been diagnosed with bone cancer. All she wants is to marry me.

I sat down on the quilted blanket which covered her bed and looked about, taking in her neatly organised dressing table, the pile of books next to the small armchair which faced the window, and the thick, leather bound book next to her bed. I picked up the book and stroked the leather cover before I flipped it open and stared at the pressed flower on the page - a daffodil. Flipping through the book I noticed the pages filled with pressed flowers of every type, their names written in elaborate writing beside them. No matter what had happened over the years, a piece of April still remained in Harley and that made me smile. My phone rang and I set the book back, answering the call.

slowly I stood up from the bed, cautiously moving to the door. As I opened it, all I saw was the thin air and the sight of the grass. There was nobody in sight. Confusion filled me fast. Who had knocked? And why did someone come here initially when I looked down the confusion came with surprise. On the doorstep of the house, a potted pot was filled with yellow flowers. Chrysanthemums, I recognized. Crouching down I took it in my hands, holding the small pot up. The pot was small enough and as I looked at the flowers, there was nothing inside. It was purely a set of flowers.

He asked. “I did promise to tell you didn’t I? The chrysanthemum is the flower of death,” she began, pointing to the largest flower, and Chris held his breath. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, but she was actually smiling. “But I found out in Australia, they call it ‘mum’ and give it as a Mother’s Day gift.” “Really?” “Yeah. When I heard about it, the flower became pretty special to me.” “And the other one?” He asked, tracing the smaller flower that composed her black and grey tattoo.

I sat with that for a while and did not rush the conclusion. A cigarette. The small ritual of it, the amber light of the ember in the dark of the room, the particular quality of thinking that came with something occupying the hands and leaving the mind to move. The grounds outside the window had gone fully dark, the late autumn dark that had weight to it, pressing against the glass. The compound was at its quietest. The second watch change had come and gone and the rotation had settled and the night had reached the hour when even the most alert among us began to trust the silence. She had not moved.

The hut was filled with herbs, candles and books scattered everywhere, the opposite of what it was when I came here last time. “Yes, please come this way,” She led us to the middle table where a large, old book lay open. She gestured for us to sit down and then pointed at the book. “Look at this. Do you know what this is?” We leaned over to take a close look at what she was pointing at, and it was a drawing of a flower. It was white and purple with four petals and a gold centre. It looked delicate and beautiful, but there was also something eerie about it. Just looking at it gave me goose bumps.

I draped down the bed to have a read through them once again and a particular line caught my attention. “I have this feeling that the day is near, when I will not be able to light the candle myself when it is night. Who knows? I might be lucky enough to gaze at the sea of chrysanthemums just like back then through that small window that brought my freedom. I hope someone reaches out to me then. I will try to hold on till someone comes.” I read the lines over and over to understand what Vincent could be talking about but I couldn’t get it. “I brought Chrysanthemum tea for you so you can relax well”, Han announced, and my brain clicked.

In my head, everything was so messed up, that I couldn't figure out what I wanted. The morning of the homeland is so peaceful, Da Lat is engulfed in mist, the sun is shining in the dawn, melting the glittering dew drops in the sky, breaking into the flowers that are competing for color everywhere, I step by step slowly throughout the flower garden behind the house, all of which have withered for a long time, but only the small chrysanthemum garden is still gorgeous in the middle of the dead garden, it just keeps blooming like an angel in the underworld. Running back, I reached out and touched the small flowers lightly, a feeling of comfort, lightness indescribable, maybe this is the only pla

“You know there is a special meaning of that flower. That flower only blooms during winter and it means love and someone I know said that it is a perfect gift for a partner during winter so, please accepts it. I don’t know what to say so I just hugged him and grab the flower in his hand. “Thank you so much” I cried. I can’t help but to cry because this flower is much related to us. A flower that blooms in winter. This is the idea I write in the paper. This book is entitled “The flower will bloom in winter”. Oh yeah I already did mention the book before so, yeah, I don’t know if I am going to write a tragic one but I want it to be fluff.