When I was flowers

I used to be a bunch of daffodils, in a previous life. As I stood in the vase, fortifying myself from the fresh water I was floating in, life went on business as usual around me, golden sparkles reaching my petals from within my green bases and yellow tops.
Yet there was one girl in the house, who seemed to know me and my whereabouts.
Almost every day, she would take one of the kitchen chairs and sit next to me.
She would smell my perfume and gently pat my leaves. I was so glad to receive her attention that I would let more perfume out, so that she could think that I was the sweetest and brightest of all bunches of daffodils in the world.
But the days went by, as days are inclined to do, and my golden heads began looking downward, and around the vase that contained me.

On the last day of my existence, my stems were weak and my perfume had changed. The girl's maid emptied the vase pouring the water out first, then threw me in the dustbin. 
I was still alive, when the girl came looking for me and opened the  can. She saw me dying and shed a golden tear, which, for a second that seemed to me longer than 1,000 milliseconds revived my agonizing cells.