Daisies

Today, I had flowers on my mind.

No, flowers are not a properly-masculine subject to ponder, but I couldn't help it. It was one of those I'm-a-vampire-so-nothing-entertains-me-and-I'm-bored days, and so Emmett and I had gotten to talking about what Rosalie and Alice reminded us of. Of course we were never reminded of the same thing, seeing as Alice and Rose are about as similar as the sun and the moon. When we got to flowers, Emmett's reaction was immediate.

"Roses," he announced. "There's her name, of course. And roses are majestic, mysterious—and beautiful."

They have thorns, too, I added silently. But of course I didn't say that out loud: saying anything negative about Rosalie in Emmett's presence was dangerous territory.

"What about Alice?" Emmett prompted, when my reply didn't come. I thought for a moment and then said honestly, "I don't know." "Oh, come on," my brother encouraged. When I shrugged, he laughed and pointed out that this was a good example of how well I knew my wife. In turn, I pointed out that at least I was putting some degree of thought into it. He just laughed again. "I'll leave you to your thoughts, then," he said, and went off to find some other form of entertainment—most likely something concerning Rosalie.

I stayed on the couch, though, thinking about it. It was ridiculous that I was wasting time on pondering this…but when you have eternity ahead of you, then who gives a damn. None of the flowers seemed to fit Alice—and I had seen a good number of flowers in all my years. At first I thought of how beautiful she was, but roses certainly weren't her. Nor were orchids, irises, lilies…

Frustrated, I got up to grab a book from the bookshelf. But as I did, out of the corner of my eye I noticed, on the table-stand in the corner of our living room, a vase full of daisies.

Daisies.

And then I knew I had it. Daisies were warm. They were inviting, caring, and friendly. An understanding, sympathetic kind of flower.

They were…Alice.

Smiling at the daisies, I went to find Emmett and tell him. When I did, though, Emmett sniggered, and I felt his scorn. "Is that the best you can do?" he asked, and Rosalie, sitting beside him, felt confused. "I guess so," I replied, smiling, and walked away to find Alice.

I knew what Emmett meant, to a degree. Daisies weren't particularly flashy, dramatic or gorgeous. When you thought of love, you didn't think of daisies.

But when I went back to look at those daisies, and thought of them as Alice, they seemed beautiful to me. They seemed warm and pure, contented. A good kind of flower—a loving kind of flower.

So today, daisies became my favorite flower. I don't care what Emmett says. And on Valentine's Day, I am giving Alice daisies.

She'll understand.