Stories from the Shelves of the Flower Shop

Lora's Flower Shop

Good morning. I’m Eliot, an 86-year-old widower.

My beloved Lora rests in a garden of blossoms, and I hope she’s content with what she left behind.

Lora had a passion for flowers and plants; I can still see the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her dream to own a flower shop, where she could nurture them daily. That glow enchanted me.

I knew little about flowers, not even her favorite. When I presented her with a rose—though I didn’t recognize it as such—and asked her to the prom, I was taken aback by her radiant joy. That moment marked the first thaw in my tough exterior.

At the prom, we found ourselves alone, and she resumed her chatter about flowers. It struck me then that I should have asked her favorite flower first, but I ventured to ask anyway.

“What’s your favorite flower?” I inquired.

“Tulips and dandelions,” she replied.

“Then why accept my roses?” I wondered.

“Because you didn’t know anything about flowers, yet you still gave me one,” she said.

“I admire people who show interest in my passions. I thought you might be annoyed by my enthusiasm, but you listened and even gifted me one. That made me feel truly special,” she explained.

I could hardly believe that someone as vibrant and admirable as her would reciprocate my feelings. A beautiful bloom like her choosing a simple pot like me seemed unimaginable.

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After we wed, I dreamed of gifting her a real flower. That’s why I created this flower shop—an homage to her.

She showered me with gratitude, and I basked in her kisses, feeling like the proudest husband. Holding her close, I found tears streaming down my cheeks.

Through the years, we built a family and became grandparents while she tended to the flower shop with grace.

Every morning, Lora greeted her plants, listened to her customers, and offered thoughtful advice. She was more than a wise florist; she was a confidante, filling the shop with warmth and books. In her element, she radiated beauty, making her dream a reality.

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On her deathbed, I sat beside her, my heart heavy with sorrow. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her, until she gently lifted my chin and locked her gaze with mine, the same gaze that had captivated me since high school.

“You still look like a bad boy, my love,” she said, a hint of playfulness in her voice.

“And you still look like my flower-nerd girl,” I replied, a smile breaking through my tears.

“You are my lovely flower, dear. My favorite one,” she murmured.

“You are my entire garden, Lora. You filled my life with color, and I’m so grateful,” I told her.

As her eyes fluttered closed, she whispered her final words.

“Keep smiling, my lovely flower. I love you for eternity…”

With that, she drifted into peaceful silence. All I could do was hold her tightly, my grip on her hand firm.

As the one who painted my world with vibrancy slipped away, I vowed to keep my spirit alive until we meet again—whether in heaven or another life. I long for the chance to gaze into her eyes once more.

The flowers will continue to bloom, thriving until my roots wither.

(As Eliot rises from speaking to the plants, he makes his way to the reception desk as the new owner of the flower shop Lora cherished.)

I will care for everything that brings you joy—this shop and me. You asked me to keep smiling, but it’s the memory of your laughter here, amidst the flowers while reading your book, that fills my heart with happiness.