Bougainvillea at home

 　　That year, while browsing the flower market, I saw a pot of bougainvillea in full bloom, quite eye-catching. I stopped to admire it; pink leaves with stamens emerging from the center, clusters of flowers crowding the branches, dazzling and vibrant. Though somewhat flamboyant, it wasn't shy; upon closer inspection, it possessed a certain masculinity, a gentlemanly air, which I liked very much. I tried to bargain with the owner, but he, like the bougainvillea, refused to budge. Eventually, I gave in, paid the price, and took the flower home.

　　Back home, I admired it carefully for a long time, liking it more and more with each glance, until my wife called me for lunch, and I was still somewhat reluctant to leave.

　　After lunch, to prevent the bougainvillea from malfunctioning, I carefully placed it in the north room, avoiding direct sunlight. Before going to bed that night, I made a point of checking on it.

　　The next morning, I went straight to the north room to check on the flower, but to my surprise, half of the blossoms had fallen, scattered all over the ground. I exclaimed in alarm, as if facing a formidable enemy. I quickly woke my wife, seemingly trying to find some reason in her. My efforts were in vain. My wife told me to go ask the flower seller. I quickly got dressed and rushed downstairs. My wife stopped me, saying, "Look at the time!" Unfortunately, I hadn't eaten breakfast properly; all my thoughts were on this bougainvillea.

　　Bougainvillea, also known as paper flower, loves sunshine and heat, thriving in well-ventilated, sunny locations. But I had completely violated its growth rules, causing unnecessary trouble. I quickly moved it from the north room to the south room's balcony, trying to let it get as much sunlight as possible to save the flowers that hadn't yet fallen. Seeing the flowers on the ground, I felt a pang of heartache. Looking at the remaining blossoms, no longer so full, I felt a wave of melancholy. I felt guilty for causing unnecessary loss due to my mistake. Fortunately, the remaining parts of the plant continued to bloom for several months before withering, which made me feel a little better.

　　After the flowers faded, leaves began to sprout from the branches. The leaves were a vibrant green, not as dazzling as the blossoms, but they added a touch of coolness. In the sweltering summer, the addition of greenery to the living room brought a sense of peace and calm, reducing the restlessness in my heart.

　　I meticulously tended to the plant, watering, fertilizing, loosening the soil, and pruning. Occasionally, I would even share a beer with it, hoping it would bloom again—a kind of compensation for my neglect. However, to my disappointment, the plant seemed unresponsive. Since the flowers faded, it only grew leaves and then lost them, then grew more leaves and lost more leaves, showing no sign of blooming again.

　　I tried many methods, such as "fertilizing" and "starving" treatments, but all ultimately failed. In despair, I stopped caring for it, seemingly unwilling to even glance at it. Occasionally, I would water it, and when I remembered to fertilize it, I would pick up the scissors and ruthlessly cut off any branches I didn't like, throwing them away without hesitation. The bougainvillea had lost its former appeal to me.

　　This went on for a long time. Looking at the bare branches after the leaves had fallen, I said to my wife, "It's too ugly, let's just throw it away." My wife disagreed, spouting some Confucian and philosophical principles. I disagreed, always believing that flowering plants should make flowering their purpose; once they stop flowering, they lose their reason for existence. I was somewhat cold-hearted, perhaps even cruel, and still wanted to throw it away while my wife wasn't home.

　　Just as I made up my mind to throw the bougainvillea away, I was surprised to find many buds emerging from the tips of the branches, growing silently. I felt a surge of joy. Upon closer inspection, I saw buds on every single branch. Looking at those buds, I felt a pang of shame, not only for my actions but also for having even thought about it.

　　Thinking about it, plants have their own growth patterns; they can't always be thriving. Like writing a novel, there must be a beginning, development, then a climax, and finally an ending. Going against the laws of nature will inevitably backfire. Plants are like this, writing novels is like this, and isn't life itself like this? Why not calm your mind and treat everything with equanimity?

　　In the end, I didn't throw away the bougainvillea; I'll take good care of it. I love the bougainvillea's flowers—simple and bright, dazzling yet not gaudy. From it, I see masculinity and gentlemanly virtues.