A woman is kneeling down, collecting flowers and placing them in a box. I realize I have no right to say anything, especially since I’ve just picked some flowers, too, but I’m not stripping the area of all the flowers. What is she doing with all of them? I’ve never seen her here before, so I’m guessing she isn’t a new groundskeeper. Not dressed like that, anyway.
I stand up and make my way around to the other side of the pond. “This is a privately owned garden,” I tell her. I know I’m no more an owner than she likely is, but I have an arrangement with the owner, who allows me to pick a couple of blue jasmines when I’m here.
Her head pops up, startled by my presence. I didn’t mean to sneak up on her, and normally I wouldn’t approach someone like this...but these flowers—they should wilt on their own.I’m a hypocrite. Why am I over here?
Her jade eyes meet mine and she looks completely distraught like I have accused her of a heinous crime. “Are theseyourflowers?” she asks in a honeyed voice.
I look down at my hand gripped around a single Jasmine. “No,” I reply, despondently. “I—I got permission from the owner of the garden.”
“I did, too,” she says. “I help the groundskeepers out sometimes since I manage a flower shop downtown. The shop I work for supplies the seeds in the spring and takes what’s left at the end of the season. Since we’re getting an early freeze, I’m making my rounds sooner than normal this year.”
“I had no idea,” I tell her, feeling like my tail is between my legs.She is the reason these flowers continue to grow here.
“It’s okay. I’m sure it looks a little odd to be cutting down flowers in the middle of a beautiful garden,” she says, closing the box up. Tucking it under her arm, she stands and flips her coffee brown hair behind her shoulders. With a couple steps in my direction, she tilts her head subtly to the side with an inquisitive look in her eyes. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Every Friday.” I point over my shoulder toward my tree. “I come to visit my wife.”
The woman places her hand over her chest and clenches the loose pink material of her shirt. Her eyes break contact with mine as she looks down toward her feet. “I’m incredibly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank—” before I can offer her my complete gratitude, she takes off past me. I turn and watch her jog up the moss steps, leaving me staring with wonder. While I’m questioning what I said to make her run, the box she is carrying abruptly flies out of her hands as she trips up one of the steps. The flowers spring out from between the flaps and the woman falls down to the step, looking defeated. Defeated from running away from me? I take my steps toward her slowly, with caution, since I don’t want to scare her again if I already have somehow.
I scoop up the flowers and take the box, laying it flat on one of the steps. I place them in one at a time, careful not to rest any of the leaves up against each other. “Are you okay?” I ask. She looks up at me with a tear streaking down her red cheek. “Did you lose someone, too?” I don’t know why I would assume that, but she’s crying and I feel like I was a dick to yet another poor person.
She nods her head subtly, staring me straight in the eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice shaky.
“I think we covered the unnecessary apologies,” I say, feeling a ghost of a smile find my mouth. I don’t think I have smiled in these gardens since the last time Ellie was here with me.
“Yes, I lost someone,” she says.
“Life sucks sometimes,” is all I can think to tell her. “It’s what I’ve told myself every day for the last five years.”
“Sometimes, but it can be really sweet some days, too,” she argues. “Sorry for this dramatic scene.” Quiet laughter escapes her lips as she runs the back of her hand against her cheek, drying the one lonely tear. “I don’t know what to say to myself to make my pain better, and I definitely don’t know what to say to someone else to ease their pain. So, the only logical thing I can think to do is run away.” She stands up and takes the box from my hand.
“Words aren’t always needed,” I tell her.
“Words are almost always needed,” she retorts.
“Is that whattheysay?”
“Who?” she asks, appearing puzzled.
“Whoevertheyare. You know,thosewho make up all of the crazy sayings that make no sense.”
“Those sayings are like art. You have to let the words sink in, and you have to forfeit your mind to the greater meaning of what is on the surface. It will all make sense then.”
“You must be a philosopher,” I tell her.
“Just a florist,” she reminds me.
“This has been the most confusing conversation about words I will probably ever have.” All because I wanted to accuse a poor woman of stealing flowers from a garden. I really know how to keep topping myself with every stupid decision I make.
“I hope not,” she says, a grin transforming from her grimace. “But I do need to get going. I need to get the shop opened.”
“Where is the shop?” I ask, wanting to know where I can buy these jasmines.
“It was nice to meet you,” she says, avoiding my question.
“Likewise,” I say in return.
