I remember when I was a teenager and I was suffering from depression. I would always be in my room, with the curtains closed, headphones on. I wouldn’t speak. I’d get angry easily if my parents tried to talk to me (too much). My room was cluttered and dusty. One day my father brought home a bouquet of flowers home for me. To cheer me up. To bring a bright little bit of nature to my stale, closed off room. I cleared a space on my shelf and put them there, so I could see them wherever I was in my room. My father continued to bring me fresh flowers every few weeks until my condition improved. I missed them. “Why don’t you buy me flowers anymore?” I would ask, whining at him. However later he would begin to ocassionally buy me flowers – for good grades on a particularly difficult set of exams, to welcome me home when I came back from Malaysia.

Today I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the door. I was puzzled, not expecting the postman. Through my window I saw a florists van. Sure enough, I opened the door to a delivery of a pail of fresh flowers, scented ones even. I received them calmly, but once I’d closed the door I couldn’t stop grinning. I put them on my dining room table, took a million pictures from every angle and of every flower. I read the card from my mother and father congratulating me on my grades, telling me how they proud of me. Later I cleaned up my desk and put them there. So they could be close to me where I usually sit. So that when I wake up, they’ll be right in my line of sight. Just like before. It makes me smile to see them there. As I sit at my desk, they are close enough that I can smell them.

I love small, thoughtful gestures like this.