Once, several years ago, my family and I traveled to Seattle for a family vacation. There, we visited the Pike Place Market. Amongst all the fresh fish and vegetables and handcrafted goods were rows of flower bouquets. Each container in which they were housed overflowed with an outpouring of strong stems and delicate petals. Each color imaginable was represented; the same could be said about the types of flowers: lilies, roses, carnations, lavender, daisies, tulips, poppies, dahlias. There were bouquets of every size, from those made for the hands of a small child to those that rivaled wedding table centerpieces.

One of the sights there that most warmed my heart took place on Friday evenings. Apparently a commonplace weekend sight, men and women alike would purchase these darling bouquets and rush home to their sweethearts. It was reminiscent of those bygone but not so long ago eras in which husbands would greet their wives with flowers and a "Honey, I'm home."

But, currently, for me, there is no rushing-home sweetheart. There is no beau who enters the door saying, "Honey, I'm home." Nor are there many locations, at least in the winter in the Twin Cities, where one is greeted by sights comparable to the tea party scene from "The Great Gatsby." At home, it's just me and my blue betta, Lenny; he's not much of a conversationalist. And the only surprise I foresee from him is coming home to him one day floating belly up, which would be a rather macabre surprise indeed. But I do have a fresh bouquet sitting atop my kitchen peninsula, purchased by yours truly.

There was a point in time in which there was a guy who bought me flowers. Not very often, but he did. I remember once, I was having a bad day and he brought me a bouquet of mixed flowers, some carnations and daisies, yellow, white and red. It was accompanied by a card too; no reason, just because. I was staying at my dad's house that night. He didn't have any vases, so I used an old pickle jar. The flowers stayed by my bedside and my room smelt a mix of cheery floral notes and dill. Every night before I fell asleep and every morning when I woke up, the sight of those pretty little flowers would bring a smile to my face.

He was the first man to ever buy me flowers. There has been a second, however. The first is no longer a part of my life; the second is and always will be.

The second is often unsure of himself, but is hopeful. He is messy but is kind. He should ask for help more often than he does. He is far from perfect, but he is good. He's encountered men who don't know how to love but is resilient. And, if there's one thing that he's good at, it's loving. I'm talking about myself. And, like it or leave it, I'm stuck with that guy for the long haul.

I've often heard before that others don't like flowers because of how fleeting and impermanent they are. "They're just going to die anyways," I've heard others say before. But what they bring is far from ephemeral. Although the beauty and color that they bring into my home may last anywhere from a few days to a couple of weeks, the happiness that they introduce lasts far longer and goes far beyond the confines of my one bedroom apartment.

For me, sometimes some of the greatest gifts in life can include a simple bouquet of flowers; sometimes the greatest gifts in life are those given to and from yourself. And, with the love and happiness they bring, flowers top my list. A bouquet of self-love, who could ask for more? This week around, I went with some blush colored carnations. The smell of dill that once lingered on such flowers is not there this time around. But the smile they brought to my face still is.