Thoughts: Papa's Flowers

As I was enjoying a good book early this evening, I heard a soft knock on my door. It was my father with his regular delivery of flowers--just for me. Every night, as long as the sampaguitas are in bloom, my father picks flowers from our garden. Then, he heads directly for my room, located at the farthest end of the corridor. As I open the door, he draws them carefully out of his back pocket and gently hands them to me. It is a ritual I quietly and deeply appreciate.

Growing up, I don't remember ever receiving a single birthday gift from my father. In our family, gift-giving is a duty relegated to my mom. That's why this gesture, which started two years ago, is especially meaningful to me. You always hear this cliche that father knows best. In this case, I find it to be true. As much as I appreciate material things, nothing makes me happier than receiving a bunch of flowers. And no gift in the world, not even a diamond ring or a Canon EOS, can mean more to me than my father's daily picking of sampaguitas.