All around me is the sweet scent of chrysanthemum, its unmistakable musk tickling the tendrils in my nostrils. I never understood why my doorstep was filled with a throng of flowers every day. The nectar attracted a melee of bees, and the shoots kept prodding at my feeble bones. The scintillating flowers soon wilt and decay due to the lack of water and my negligence. One by one, the petals shed, causing my floor to be lined with a discordant mass of yellow, white and brown.
Occasionally, however, after a storm abates, all the expensive flowers will be obliterated. Its distinct scent would be replaced with the smell of dew. It was a nice change, for I have put up with chrysanthemum for the past four years. No matter how loud I hollered, people with red-rimmed orbs would continue to thrash my property with those trashy flowers.
My matronly mother…
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