A Crimson Thistle and Five Minutes of Jealousy

 A Crimson Thistle and Five Minutes of Jealousy

The other day, I happened to look up the language of flowers for the thistle, convinced that it meant jealousy.

It all started on a routine train ride. I noticed a young woman who was, in every single way, exactly my type. She looked to be about eighteen or nineteen years old; I am sixty-five. I have a wonderful wife who is just a year older than me. Naturally, given my age, my marriage, and simple common sense, she was completely out of reach. I didn't dare utter a single word to her.

During those fleeting five minutes on the train, a poignant realization washed over me: I will likely never cross paths with her again. My mind began to wander, imagining her story. She was probably a freshman who had just moved from the countryside for university. And being as breathtakingly beautiful as she was, she would never lack for company, even if she were alone right now.

That was when the jealousy hit me—not directed at her, but toward the nameless, faceless young man who would one day hold her hand and claim her affection.

The very next day, while walking along the roadside, I spotted a vibrant, crimson thistle. It seemed to look right at me, whispering, "Pick me. Take me home and display me in your room."

Remembering what I thought was its meaning, I stopped in my tracks. I brought it home and carefully placed it in a vase. To me, that deep red flower was the physical manifestation of my own raw, unattainable envy. It was beautiful, yet guarded by sharp, cautionary thorns that demanded careful handling—much like the fragile emotion I was harboring.

As it turns out, the official language of the thistle does not include jealousy. It actually stands for things like independence, defense, and retaliation.

But flower languages are fluid, evolving things. For me, in that quiet moment of intersection between a passing train ride and a roadside flower, that crimson thistle bore a language meant for me alone. It became my jealousy, my bittersweet longing, and a quiet monument to a beautiful five-minute romance that will live forever, safely tucked away, in my memory.