Posted on February 17, 2011

Barnaby loves growing roses.

He has red roses. Many different kinds of red. Grainy red like a desirable apple. Light red like blushing cheeks. Bright red like a romantic sunset. Dark red like a deep passionate love. His most beautiful roses are pure red, like drops of blood from a pricked finger.

Barnaby is looking for the perfect bouquet. His early attempts had failed. He had not been able to impress anyone. He didn’t have a big enough garden to pick the perfect roses for his perfect bouquet. But after years of developing his garden and learning about roses, he had tried again.

At first he tried finding the perfect dozen. Twelve seemed like a goood number for a perfect bouquet. So he took the twelve most beautiful roses in his garden and gently put them together. But bunched together, they looked just like any other bouquet. He tried different roses. He tried with ferns. He tried larger roses. He tried different colors. But he did not find the perfect bouquet. He sold his creations to his customers.

So he tried larger bouquets. And as he tried different bouquets, he kept taking care of the roses in his garden. He got better at it. His roses became more beautiful. He thought the largest bouquet in the world might be the most beautiful. So he took his three hundred most beautiful roses. He tied them together with his favourite ribbon in a basket he made for the occasion. But each rose, no matter how beautiful, would fade among its peers, and lost all it’s glamour. The bouquet won many contests, but it was not the perfect bouquet.

So he tried smaller bouquets. Years of attention and care had payed out. Almost every rose that he grew was perfect. Three of them tied together in a ribbon could mend or break a heart. But Barnaby had not yet found the perfect bouquet. Just a single one of his roses was extremely precious, but a single rose does not constitute a bouquet.

Barnaby realised that the perfect bouquet could have any amount of roses. The secret to a perfect bouquet lied elsewhere. He would keep working until he found the secret.

Barnaby now continues to work for his perfect Bouquet, but no one knows what he has tried. He does not admit anyone into his garden anymore. He does not see anyone except the occasional florist. Most florists have stopped coming. The rumor says that some of his roses dont look like roses anymore. Those who see him say that his hands are scarred and bandaged and that his eyes look empty.

Barnaby must realise that he will never grow the perfect bouquet alone in his garden. He first has to find someone to give it to.