The Tulip Man

The woman of Marigolds

Bright and early In Green Hill I wake while the rest of the town sleeps. I walk down to my Flower shop in the heart of the town where I sell and deliver Flowers to neighbors, friends, and family. I opened my flower shop after my mother had passed away from cancer, and somehow four walls and three windows became my shelter. I enjoyed my job unlike many in the world with simple jobs to keep them busy and make them money. To me, my job served a purpose, and through flowers, I have witnessed the beauty and wounding of life. Losing my mother was hard and for a while, I had lost myself in the swirling and miserable cycle of grief. On my deliveries, I venture into a new place every day. The start of my day is new each time whether it's dropping off flowers at a funeral home, a two-story home, an office, or a school I've seen in all, not to mention the people and the stories behind their visits to the flower shop resonate with me. The Man who comes in every April and requests a batch of azaleas buys them for his wife to celebrate their anniversary. Each year he will bring her favorite Azalea's to her cemetery. he remembers her fondly and speaks of her highly, and sometimes still cries when he thinks of her which is more frequent than not. The sixteen-year-old who stopped by my shop bought a batch of marigolds on Tuesday for a girl at school he admires. He plans on using the flowers to ask her to their school formal. The man who comes into the shop ten minutes before closing with a black suit and tie picks up a fresh batch of roses for his wife. He comes home late from work every night and now lets the clock work him, In hopes that a small gesture will bring him his wife back. Although they live in the same house, he hasn't felt her for years, but he only strings himself out to dry because out of all the roses he brings he never knew that her favorite flowers were Dahlia's. One of my favorite visits each time a day is at noon when a young woman would stop by the shop upon the request of pink tulips because those are her absolute favorite. The young woman had brown silky hair always wrapped up halfway up with a red bow and red cheeks which contrasts with her pale skin. She was a customer that I looked forward to the day in and day out, and twenty-five minutes before the clock hit twelve, her tulips would be freshly cut, watered, and wrapped ready for her arrival. The sweet young woman had the most to say to me in the afternoons. It had been the meetings we had that she would tell me her stories of a loving family and her plans for law school while only a year into her undergrad studying psychology.On her way out of the store if she would see a homeless man or woman she would often take a couple of flowers out of a bouquet and give it to them, and if the man or woman had a dog or pet of some kind she would run across the street and buy food for their pet. It would rain outside and through the wet and foggy window, I would watch her run across the street and come back with a smile on her face to the man or woman she would bless. The young woman only ever did the right thing because of her fundamental principles and endless endeavors for constant gratitude and endless support of humankind. To her eyes everyone was equal and in some parts of them reminded her of herself. She was grounded and noble, and fruitfully honest. The young woman talked to me heavily about who she was and what he beliefs were, she was an open book that you couldn't put down, and only was she ever open because she had a heart of gold. I enjoyed hearing her talk, and meeting someone as hopeful as herself gave me a reason to believe that there was still hope for us all. Even the most wounded and wronged. On my way out closing the shop, I would notice the same homeless man that sleeps across the street some nights on the park's monkey bars. Although I always felt a desire to help, he wasn't there every night, only a couple of times a month would he appear in the same spot. I'd often ask myself where he would go when I wouldn't see him the next night, and during my walks back home I'd often see an eye out for him to make sure he was alright. I'd feel quite a bit of guilt. Though there were nights he wouldn't be there, I stood silent for all the nights he was. He'd travel on the grounds of the playground with the same yellow jacket and green backpack often wearing sweats and white shoes that hadn't been white in a while. The man looked young and to himself, and until it went dark and where there was no one in sight and the kids left the park only then would he make himself comfortable and lie down and sleep. From his appearance, he didn't look homeless but in his eyes, he looked lost; worried even. The look in his eyes was familiar to me; it had been the same look in my father's eyes during the beginning of his drug addiction. At only ten years old I had studied that look too often than not, and I often did the same thing with my father that I had with the man who slept on the monkey bars; I was silent. my father left shortly after giving me the responsibility to step up into his place as a man so early that I provided for both me and my mother at the age of twelve. The flower shop was the only thing that got me by my father's absence, and when my mother passed away when I was only twenty-five the shop was the only place I had left to go. At times I would blame the shop for not providing me enough money to pay for my mother's treatments, and I would hate it for not giving me enough hope for my family's healing. at night when the young would sleep on the monkey bars I thought of my dad, maybe that's where he ran to when he left us. After a few moments of feeling sorry for myself, I thought about the young man, and I thought to myself who had been up at this hour thinking about him and where he was. I wondered if there had been anyone that he had to be worried for him and care for him for at all. I wondered if he had a mother or a father, maybe an aunt or an uncle, or even a foster home with foster parents, but I didn't know because I had never made the effort to ask. I felt bad for the man he didn't look young enough for me to call anyone for help but he didn't look old enough to be where he was which worried me. The world was evil and full of terrible things, but I was no better because all I ever did was stay silent.