The hyacinths were blue.

Though she’d specifically said, made it firmly known, that her preference was for a pink bunch (how wonderful to be able to buy bunches of the spring bloom, rather than waking bulbs in overpriced pots that were invariably too small once the first season was over) – though she had clearly stated that pink was the colour she desired, the girl had returned with blue.

There they stood, a kitchen still life, green stems vivid in the water through the clear glass of the vase, the admittedly subtle shade of blue flowers inoffensive atop.  She cocked her head to the side, noticing how the sunlight shone through the window just so, illuminating the blooms, casting them in a yellowish light near-reverent to this, a simple, singular symbol of spring.

With a small smile of surprise, she realised that she was content.

The hyacinths were blue, and she was happy.

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