I watched as the old man went weeding through the garden. He held a kneeling pad with him so whenever he stopped to examine the flowers, so he wouldn't need his glasses. He didn't want the extra help. I didn't blame him. I watched every day as he dropped the thick piece of green foam onto the cement edge, use his walker as a guide to his knee, and lean forward. He would hold each flower two inched away from his right eye. His left has a foggy look, and he'll never admit it, but I'm sure he has Cataracts in the one eye. But he's still study it then slowly lower it to his nose where I'd watch his trembling lungs take in a swig of the aroma.
If his face twitched into a smile, I knew what would happened next. He would lean back again and drag his walker a few inches closer. Just close enough where he could reach into a burlap sack. Appearing from the sack would e a pair of garden clippers. He would take the scissors, go to the farthest part of the stem he could, and cut. I had never seen him struggle cutting a flower, unlike with all of his other tasks, he did this without a tremble.
If his face remained the same, I would continue watching with empathy as he struggled his way back standing. He would grip the walker with a white grasp and pick up the kneeler too. The man would turn again and continue walking down the path.
When he was done with his day, 12 flowers laid delicately in the burlap sack. All varying lengths, colors, and scents. But always absolutely exuberant. He'd let me help with this part. But only after precisely watching him for days, then weeks, on end.
He would lay each out and decide their length. Sometimes it was short and sometimes long. It depended on his mood. I loved it when the stems were long. He always packaged them so delightfully. Today I was lucky. He seemed happier then usual and his wrinkles seemed more shadowed then usual. His smile lines showed intensely today.
"You've never asked me what the flowers are for." He whispered, as his tanned hands worked on placing the flowers on top of one another as I handed them too him.
I paused my movement. "I never really thought about it. I just thought they were for a lady friend." I nudged him as I said this. I continued handing the flowers now. He chuckled deeply at this. His teeth, still perfectly straight from what I assumed was adult braces, were being showed proudly.
"Well..." He spoke regaining his breath. I could tell it was getting harder for him lately. "I had my true love. I had my Juliet." He drew his thumb down the stem of the flower and then grasped onto one of the green pedals. He then slowly parted the flowers and reached for a daisy. "But I gave her one of these. It made her question everything. I told her I loved her. She plucked the poor flower down to the damn green center. I knew what she was doing and let her do it. I didn't know what I had to lose." He looked at me now, smiling. "The damn 'he loves me, he loves me not' poem didn't go my way. But I loved her. So what did I do?"
I honestly didn't know. So I shrugged and said, "You let her go?"
He laughed again. "You think I'd let her get away that easy? Of course not. I plucked another damn daisy and gave it to her. I said, 'I'll give you these damn daisies every day until you choose me. Hell, I'll give you every damm flower until that song lands on 'he loves me' because I do. I love you and I'll prove it to you.'" With that, he wrapped the flowers up, with one shaking hand on the counter, the other clutching the bouquet to his chest. "So every day I go down to her room and I lay them on her door."
I looked down then back up at him, "Did you ever prove it to her?" I asked genuinely curious. I assumed she would be his sweetheart. Who wouldn't be?
"Nope, she lays in bed every day alone. But I'll win her god damn. I'll get my girl." He said, starting to shuffle his feet towards his walker again. "I'll get her." He repeated under his breath.
