Love from Fear ~ February Oneshots

Why flowers smell when they rot?

Genre: Fluff :)

“Why do flowers smell when they rot?” Rosaline asks, the question sudden. Freedom looks up from his phone at them, watching them mess around with the petals or a single, blood red rose, the same colour as January’s hair. January turns from the sink, hands still wet from washing fruit. She dries them on a towel on the counter. “Well that’s because they’re decomposing.” She answers simply.
“I know that.” The eleven year old whines, a little impatient. “That’s the boring answer.”
“Oh. You want an interesting answer?” Their child nods stubbornly. January moves to sit next to them at the kitchen island, brushing their hands- which are clasped around the prickly stem of the rose. Freedom wonders how Rosie hasn’t pulled their hands away in pain yet. “In that case, I like to think of it as a last mark.” January whispers. “The last thing they leave before their swallowed by the earth. The last sign they were here.”
Rosaline stares at their mother, turning her words over and over agin before smiling and nodding. “See, thats an interesting answer.”
Rosaline continued messing with the petals for a bit, letting quiet fall around them once more. Freedom’s eyes wonder back to the article he was reading but it’s not long before they’re drawn back up to the sound of his daughter’s- they said they’re ok with being called that because it feels like home- voice. “What about you, dad? What’s your interesting answer as to why flowers smell when they rot?”
“Well,” Freedom sits up, switching his phone off and setting it on the island top. “I think flowers smell when they rot because it reminds people. It reminds people that life is short but that’s ok because you can do anything you want with it. And you can do so many beautiful things with it. I say that because flowers don’t necessarily stink badly when they rot- it’s more sickly sweet and earthy- that it means beautiful things have to end sometimes but that’s ok too. Because once the flower has rotted into the soil, it makes way for new, brighter flowers.” Freedom gently leans over and unclasps the thorny stem from Rosaline’s hands, finding poked but not punctured skin. He puts the rose down in between them. “Like a small legacy.” He carries on. “The smell is an echo of what the flower was. A memory.”
Rosaline looks at him with wide blue eyes, which they no doubt inherited from his mother. The thought makes his heart beat a little more. Then, they smile at him, soft and fulfilling, laugh and say “You sound like a poet, dad.”
“I think your mother’s influencing the way I think.” Freedom shakes his head, laughing with his daughter. January scoffs in mock offence. “And is there anything wrong with my writer’s influence on you.” She questions, hands on hips. She’s stood now, moving around the kitchen to make some tea. “Not at all my dear wife.” He giggles. She comes up next to him and pecks a kiss on his lips. “Grossss.” He hears Rosie say. The two just laugh and shake their heads.

Everything about his family is good. And he is happy.

Written by Julyinthestorm.