Another flower that reminds me of my mother . . . She loved to tell the myth of Narcissus and Echo. The story of Echo always gave me the creeps, of a woman with no voice of her own, with no other wish than to love a man who was only interested in himself . . .
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Were I lucky enough to be one of these, I believe I should at times be tempted to care only about myself.
Until, that is, I took a peek at my equally lovely neighbor, and then all my care might well be redirected.
(Does beauty love beauty as much as we love beauty, or is it too beautiful to be bothered? I have more than once wondered about this, in more than one context.)
I don't know about beauty, but I remember my mother telling us just to smell the daffodils. A lot of beautiful things are poisonous, she liked to say.
The tiniest sip of the sap that weeps from a cut stem would send any foolishly thirsty taster away in a hurry.
Bitter!
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