The land of Amare is not unlike the one in which you or I live. The similarities are nearly endless. The same sorts of birds sing their similar sounding melodies. Fluffy clouds make funny shapes passing over the heads of cows and sheep grazing peacefully in their fields. Fires flicker, rain falls, rivers flow and trees sway with the breeze, all in the same way that they do where you live. The sun doesn’t shine any brighter, the wind doesn’t blow more pleasantly, the rain doesn't fall less frequently. The land of Amare is in every way the same as the land of your home.
The people of Amare are similar too; they have the same jobs, the same hobbies, they own the same phones and cars. They vary in the same ways that you vary from others. The people share beautiful cultures and long histories; things to be proud of, things to improve upon and things that should not be forgotten or repeated. The children play similar games with marbles and cards and balls and imaginary things. Similar stories are told and similar jokes are endured. The people of Amare enjoy sports and arts and music quite like those that you enjoy at home and they enjoy them in the same ways.
I could not describe Amare in a way that would express to you the degree of similarity between there and your home, but were I to be sitting before you now and you were to question some aspect of similarity, then undoubtedly my answer would express how they are the same. I dare even say that were you to wander around Amare for a good number of days then you would be forgiven for thinking that you were still home. However, it must also be noted that the land and people of Amare have one difference to your home, one small, subtle difference that you would surely pick up.
In Amare, every person that has ever lived has always had a flower with them. It’s not always a flower, sometimes it is a succulent, a patch of moss, or a tiny little tree, but every person, everyday of their lives carries with them their little plant. They never swap it for another, or misplace it, and in return it seems to be no bother to their daily lives. Observing these plant-carrying folk of Amare, it seems as if they barely pay much mind to the plants at all. But you'd be wrong.
For these plants are not a mere fashion statement or expression of remembrance, it is the flower of their life. On the day of an Amarian's funeral they are laid into the ground and beside them a small hole is dug where their plant is also laid to rest, yet for all of the days of an Amarian's life the plant endures alongside them.
On days that an individual experiences particular joy, their flower flourishes as if it has been growing, well-watered with the appropriate amount of sunlight in nutritious soil. Those who sit amongst friends with smiles on their faces and love in their heart have the most splendid growths accompanying them; bright green foliage and beautiful coloured petals. Jokes, stories, compliments, anything that brings joy causes a welcomed change to an individual's flower. However not all plants boast such splendour, some are half wilted for days on end, some are even almost completely brown with dried up leaves like a winter pansy in the heat of August. In the same way that the flower of life can be made to flourish, it can also wilt and begin to perish.
Everyday people pass each other by and notice one another's plants, they smile and exchange pleasantries with all, lending small parts of their days to aid in the sprouting of another's plant. The person behind the bar asks the lonely pensioner about their day seeing that their flower is drooping slightly. The passenger thanks the bus driver, noticing the lack of petals on their orchid. Friend checks on friend, stranger looks out for stranger. It is hard for the people of Amare to pass on a cruel word without noticing the impact on a flower.
But the plant they all notice the most is their own. They pass up on that extra pint, they allow themselves that meal they would otherwise skip. Cigarettes and drugs are rarely in high demand as those that partake quickly see their plant rot.
Maybe this land of Amare is more different to ours than you first suspected, maybe I lied when I said “Amare is not unlike the land in which you or I live”, or maybe each of us could have a little more Amare in us.
The End
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