The Burden of A Rose

The rose was part of an exhibit called "The Moving Garden" by Lee Mingwei at the Brooklyn Museum. Flowers were set in a channel along a tabletop at the entrance to the museum, and visitors were invited to take a single blossom as they leave, but with the understanding that somewhere along the way to their next destination they would give the flower as a gift to a stranger.

I chose a beautiful rose in pale orange, an October color, and above you see it in my hand as I sit on a subway car, wondering how to give it away and to whom. Maybe the man in the baseball cap who had held the subway door open for us as it was about to shut? Perhaps that weary-looking old woman, or the little girl fidgeting as her mother braided her hair?

It could be just me, and the way I over-think everything, but it seemed to involve a lot of decision-making and even a bit of fretting, this giving of a flower. Might the recipient misconstrue the gesture as harassment, the object as other than what it is? Loudspeakers in the stations are constantly remonstrating travelers: "Protect yourself", "Remain alert", "Have a safe day"...not exactly a gift-giving climate.

It occurred to me again and again during this trip to New York how much we are required to simply trust each other, tempered with caution, of course. So many strangers at one another's mercy. To which one should I give my rose?

Back out on the street, there were plenty of potential recipients hurrying by, but now weird shyness possessed me. I wasn't inclined to approach anyone, with or without explanation. The rose was lovely, but it had begun to feel like an obligation, a duty I had to dispatch, and the longer I waited, the less natural it felt. It just wasn't as easy as I thought it would be.

On Pierrepont Street, I stopped at the Brooklyn Historical Society. I'm just gonna do it, I thought. And before going upstairs to the library, I awkwardly handed the rose to a young woman at the desk.

"Exactly what I needed," she said.