On a sunny Saturday in April I passed a charming wooden bench in a small city park under an old California oak tree. On the bench was a bouquet of yellow flowers, not roses or anything expensive, more like large daisies. The bouquet, wrapped in a large cone of plain brown paper was tied with a pretty blue ribbon. The bench was empty. No one was around.
The little bunch of cheerful flowers intrigued me. I sat on the bench and thought about who might have left the sweet bouquet, now wilting in the afternoon sun. Who bought it? Who was it meant to surprise and charm? Who refused to accept it? Or was it never presented at all? What had happened on this particular day in April?
My mind turned to the romantic possibilties of those forlorn flowers. Was this a tale of unrequited love? I didn’t take the bouquet. It wasn’t meant for me. I went home and that night I composed a little tale around what I’d seen. I hope you enjoy it.
The Forlorn Bouquet
The bouquet had been bright in the shop that morning, sparkling with a refreshiing simplicity.
It was not the cultivated brightness of formal roses, breathtakingly opulent and sure to impress. The little bouquet held something more hopeful. It had obviously been chosen not for perfection, but for cheer. Wide yellow faces turned outward, as if each flower wished to be noticed. Admired even.
The young man bought them just after the shop opened.
The girl behind the counter smiled at him as she wrapped them in brown paper, twisting it into a cone with practiced elegance.
“These last longest in water,” she said, though he hadn’t asked. He nodded as if this was useful information. As if longevity mattered.
He paid for the little bouquet in cash, drawing the worn bills out of his trouser pocket. In his mind he had rehearsed this moment, choosing the bouquet, paying for it, thanking the shop girl, presenting it to her.
The girl behind the counter tied a pale blue ribbon around the plain paper cone. “It softens the yellow,” she said, and smiled again.
He left the shop, carrying the flowers carefully, one hand beneath the stems, the other shielding them from the wind like a small, living flame.
A Romantic Reflection
They had agreed to meet at the park today, on the weathered wooden bench beneath the sheltering old oak tree. Or had they? It had never been absolutely settled. But they had sat together on that bench yesterday and she had laughed when an acorn had dropped from the tree, just missing his head, bouncing onto the bench. Her laugh, a bright thrilling sound, lodged in his heart, lifting his spirits.
He watched her pick up the acorn and hold it delicately between two fingers.
“Imagine,” she said, “you could have been knocked out by an acorn.”
She threw the acorn across the path and into the grass. They laughed together and looked up at the impressive height of the oak, its branches spreading wide, sheltering the little bench. Then she wove her arm through his and gave a playful tug.
“Let’s always meet here,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow?”
An Imagined Encounter
Today he arrived early at the bench. The time had never been set between them. Not really. Or had it?
He sat. The bench was warm already, though the morning was still cool. He placed the bouquet beside him, then picked it up again, then set if down more carefully, as if positioning it exacly right might affect the outcome.
People passed. A woman with a stroller glanced his way and smiled encouragingly. A man with headphones jogged by and gave him a small salute. A little white dog ran up to him, gave a yip and moved on.
He checked his watch again, though he knew the time. Leaning back on the bench, he imagined her approach. The way she walked slightly off-balance, as if one step were always a thought ahead of the other. He imagined her seeing the flowers, a small spark of surprise in her eyes, then that intoxicating laugh. He imagined himself saying something off hand, deflecting the gesture even as he made it.
“I didn’t know what flowers you liked,” he would say with a little shrug.
That would be enough.
A Poignant Reckoning
The mintues lengthened. The sun climbed. The venerable oak spread its arms to shade him. To comfort him, perhaps.
At some point, he could not say exactly when, he understood. Not in a dramatic way. It wasn’t a sudden revelation, nor was it painful. More like a quiet settling inside, like dust after movement. She was not coming. His world rearranged itself without asking his permission.
He stood. For a moment he considered taking the flowers with him. Or giving them to someone else. Maybe the young woman with the stroller. No. She would understand and pity him. Or, he could just discard them and erase the evidence of his lost hope.
Instead, he adjusted the paper and tightened the blue ribbon a little in an absurd gesture of care. Then he left the bouquet there on the bench in the sunshine. Maybe they would give cheer to someone else.
He walked away and did not look back. Perhaps tomorrow she would come. Perhaps tomorrow he would bring her roses!