I just can't do it.
I can't throw flowers out until they are falling apart. As in, petals in a pile on the table, or counter, or windowsill, or wherever they are.
One day they look fine. Full of life. Peppy. Happy. Cheery.
The next day, they droop a bit. That's when I start to feel bad for them. They are in the middle age of their life. You can't just throw things out when they hit middle age.
They still have value.
They are still pretty.
And then the next time I look, they are plain old sad. Their little bodies get lower and lower until, poof.
Petals on the metal, or wood in the case of my table.
I hate throwing them out, but I'm oh-so-appreciative of the joy they brought me while they lived.