Remember how nice it was when you were little and you'd wake up on May Day and be all, "Weeeee! Where are my lace doilies?! [Then, more manically...] I must make May Day baskets for all our old neighbors and leave them on their front doors, and it will be a total surprise and make them so happy and and andAND AND..." [spinning girlishly, giggling and being in love with the sky and sun] "I have to start picking flowers THIS INSTANT."
Then the careful selection of which blossoms had reached their prime and it was justifiable to sacrifice, keeping them watered as the bouquets were prepared, and then matching them up in what were essentially floral death ceremonies. (Oh, stop. I know, I know - such the Romantic. Sweet youth!)
Finally, walking them discreetly down the block, a smaller crop each year, as I realized how few of our neighbors I actually considered worthy. Halloween? Carefully noted. "You-a give me a leetle sumthin' sweet, and I'll-a give-a you a leetle bit a dees [flowers]..." Then, in the end, the disappointment that the purity of the sentiment was getting colored, and probably at least ten to thirty minutes of self-criticism before resolving to Put Things Right and put some bouquets even onto the doors of total strangers.
To regret later.
Yay! May Day!
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