The Flower on the Lamppost

Belonging

Vague tones of the daybreak danced in bokeh till the distinct shapes of her surroundings forged into the lovely display she beheld in the waking morning.

Blooming before the time appointed was neither a circumstance she'd willed to have, nor a life that was simple to survive. Fragile as she was, observing everything around her and staying awake all day were toils overshadowed by her incompetence. But what truly kept her alive with a resolve to defend herself from the frosty season and persist in the realms of Life was what she realised she'd spectate every passing day –stories.
So many moving about with vigour in their sinew and blood in their veins, breath in their nostrils, but what in their souls? Love or Ire? Peace or Conflict? She was perched on the stalk of a slender vine, high enough to be gently swayed by cooling zephyrs, much closer to the lamp on the post which had, in its heart, only the melted wax that remained from a candle that had burnt all night: a place wherefrom the single flower could behold all the events that came to pass in the few minutes out of the lives of humans spent whilst passing her range of passive surveillance. It ill behoved her to observe and render her fragrance to ease their burdens or kindle their gladness.
Sunlight had not yet established the dominance of Morning, but the day had begun, bringing with it, despair and longing. Honey pools in cedar fur, teary black eyes in midnight wool, glazed Sapphires in bread-coloured fleece: three abandoned pups, coated with the dust brought from wandering the hostile environment that offered them neither warmth, nor food. Their whimpers and sniffles, however, were not delivered to kindless ears in this neighbourhood.
The young man who came by early to open the café saw them huddled together like a bundle of cushions and smiled warmly at them, reaching down, till his knees rested on the ground, to gently touch their soft, dishevelled fur. "You look hungry. How do blueberries with wheat bread sound to you?" were his words to them till the wagging of their little tails confirmed an affirmative response, replacing the creases of sympathy on his face with warmth.

Opening the café, he ushered them in –a warming sight for a beholder to see a display of love where there may never be a recompense. The flower rested for the day, this little story that lasted just a few moments tucked away in her memory. The rest of the day passed by with a few humans moving about, some as families where a few delightfully spotted her, expressions like they were flabbergasted by a rare sight when Winter held merciless sovereignty, and the others not sparing their surroundings a glance, but walking about briskly, purpose fresh in their minds.

Eventide. A time that brought with it, the building cold. Crepuscular hours had begun their reign and the few people that walked the streets retreated to the warmth their homes offered. A lanky man slandered by and stopped beneath the lamppost, unwrapping a small box full of aromatised candles. He looked up and caught sight of the fleur, a sort of gleam scintillating distantly in the night of his eyes. Was the untimely appearance of a flower to symbolise hope in this frost-stricken season? Pulling a short ladder that rested nearby, he propped it to suit his convenience and climbed closer, opening the door of the lamp. After removing the remains of the candle that had fulfilled its purpose last night, he placed a new one and ignited it. The duration of one cold night: that was its life time. To bring warmth and light: that was its purpose. And the day that would follow, the melted remnants would be all that's left and its life would be forgotten, but the flame that incinerates the craft of its physique is the reason it would be remembered, or be of benefit to those in its life.

Melancholic sentiments about the candle that was lit were interrupted by the man dismounting the ladder. His stubbled face showed pleasant wrinkles when he smiled, a hand reaching to feel her petals. Calluses. She longed, for a moment, to know all the stories that he may have endured to reach this page in his life. An old soul, certainly.

She watched on till his heels touched the ground and the ladder retired to where it was, before engagement, and then something seemed to have caught his attention: a small parcel of food waiting for him, wrapped in a woollen scarf, ribbons binding it in a shoddy bow, the evidence of both haste and compassion. Joy was an emotion evident in his eyes as he looked around curiously for whom this secret donor may be, but there was no one.

The weight of drowse, however, commanded the surrender of her curiosity and the cyan blossom partially relented to the beckons of slumber, the suspense of who may have kept the food there still haunting her thoughts. The passage of a few moments where the man had left and the street had stilled was all that occurred until a shaded silhouette in the shape of the old lady approached in a distance to take her place on the bench beside the lamppost, a hardbound book tucked under her arm. The lovely feelings of puppies fed and sheltered, a man taking joy in the presence of a flower and a secret helper that offered food embraced the little flower as her consciousness was conquered by the magnitude of her fatigue and she slept.
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