I hitched a ride to The Floriography Shoppe with Elio Belfiore, pulling a cart of fresh flowers he had just picked up from the train.
What’s floriography, you ask? Floriography is the language of flowers that gained so much popularity in the Victorian era. Every flower and plant held special meaning, offering Victorians a way to send coded messages to their loved ones through the careful arrangement of flowers.
“Ciao, papa!” Gina called to him from the shop’s loading dock. “You brought the special Mother’s Day flowers? Oh, and I see you picked up a hitchhiker.”
Gina hurried down the dock steps and scooped me up into a warm hug. She carried me up the steps and set me on the loading dock workbench. Then came the scritches. Gina always did give the best scritches. Ahhh, a cat’s life. There’s nothing like it.
While still petting me, Gina checked off the invoice as Mr. Belfiore stacked the boxes on the workbench.
“Roses, of course, the flower of love,” he called out.
“Check”
“Carnations, enduring love and devotion of mothers.”
“Check”
Lilies, purity, renewal, and motherhood.”
“Check”
“Tulips, new beginnings, growth, and spring.”
“Check”
“Peonies, beauty, compassion, and maternal instincts.”
“Check. Oh, DC, you have to see these. Peonies are so beautiful.” She opened a box and, of course, I sniffed them.
ACHOO! What was THAT? I shook my head and flicked my ears. ACHOO! Wow! My nose tick. . . ACHOO! Tickles.
“DC?” Gina scooped me into her arms. “What’s the matter, girl?”
ACHOO! I sprayed Gina good with that one.
“Okay, we’re allergic to peonies.” She wiped her face, closed the box, and took me inside. “Let’s get you a treat.”
