I’ve never been given a dozen red roses, but according to romantic comedies, I should be really excited if get them. The long white box with a ribbon around it is apparently a universal signal of being loved. Then, again according to the movies, the flowers will somehow be transported into a perfect vase where they will be glistening at me when I come back from a whirlwind date. Closing the front door after one last kiss, it will be me and the roses.

What I have been gifted, many times, are sticks, rocks, and freshly picked flowers. For most of my life I’ve worked with children who would find treasures while we are on a walk or at the park. I always come back from San Diego with a few new shells and rocks from Bright Eyes and Sunshine (two of the cutest girls ever). I got flowers from Davey Bird more out of rescuing them from her mouth than them being gifts. Oh, and I cannot forget all of the “perfect” sticks one young boy gave me each time we walked to the park. Tears would come to his eyes when I would only bring one back with us instead of the whole bundle.

A dozen roses. A stick from the path. A wildflower picked to put into my hair.

What matters is not the cost of the gift, but the meaning behind it. Because in the real world, a wish blown on a dandelion is better than a thousand roses.