The Florist

There is something rigid and artificial about cultivated talents. I always felt so, and after I met her, I was more than convinced about my own opinion. Some people religiously attend piano lessons every week, some take painting classes, and a couple of them gravitate towards a sport to 'stay fit and healthy'. 

She was different.

Her skills grew out of real true passion for art. When I first entered her room, I was left spellbound for a long time. Flowers. Beautiful, colorful, flowers everywhere. Flowers created out of oil paints, sketched out with charcoal, smudged with pastels, decorated with glitter, and blended with poster colors. Large and small canvases. Pretty cuttings of flowers hanging from the curtains, printed on bed-sheets and pillowcases. Even her dresses, I realized were made of light-hued flowery printed fabric.

She had never learnt how to paint. That talent somehow happened right after she fell in love with nature. One day she told me that after she retired, she would stay in some jolly town next to those mountains and rivers and sell flowers. She would be a florist.

I had been 'in love' many times before. Women had entered and left. I didn't know if she was here to stay in my life, but then well, who knew such stuff anyways? Maybe if she left, I'd remember her every year during Spring, when apple blossoms filled those silent canopies. I'd remember her fragrant scent, an exotic mixture of sandalwood and rose. I'd remember her dark eyes, and the Japanese Silk she wore on her 23rd birthday, white with printed cherry blossoms. I'd remember her bubbling smile, full of unconditional happiness and love.

I particularly loved her habit of collecting petals. Every time I gave her a flower, I made sure it was a different one. So that she could add it to that fat flower dictionary she was creating. And deep inside, I hoped and hoped that I never ran out of new flowers.

She will always remind me of nostalgic afternoons in the backyard. Days when all I wanted to do was patch up my hot air balloon or get lost in the orchard or sail down the river to the tranquil harbor. Days when she sat next to me, her head on my shoulder, singing songs that we both loved. Days when she covered her hands with paint and created mosaics on my wall. She will always remind me of fallen eyelashes, maple leaves and carnations.

The first time I saw her, she was looking out of a French window in a cafe down town. She was wearing a light blue dress, with periwinkles on it. On her right hand was a corsage, comprising of a species of white flowers I did not know.
I found it strange and so I asked her.

"Oh, I had worn this on my first prom, almost five years back." she answered. She had a musical voice, like a wood nymph.

Oh, so maybe she had a lover after all. Maybe that guy who had given her the corsage was going to meet  her at this very cafe after I left.
"Did he like you a lot?", I asked out of mere curiosity.
She laughed a lot when she heard this.
"No, he did not. Not at all. But I liked him a lot, so I wear one of these every year. It's a sweet memory, and nothing else."

I smiled to myself. She was one special woman. The future is full of uncertainties, but this woman, I wanted her to stay forever. And as I left the cafe with her by my side, I made a mental note to that man who had left her:

Thanks Bro. You gave me the chance to fall in love with this angelic creature. I owe you one for that.