When A Rose Is A Rose Is- More Than A Rose.
--by singlestep, posted Nov 8, 2006
But this was not about the roses.
We buy ten buds, some tightly wrapped up in themselves, others just starting to open. Give her one, he says, just loud enough so I can hear and she can't. I pull one-long stemmed beauty out of the bunch and give it to her for the pricelessness of a sudden smile.
We walk on newly-burdened, one down, nine roses to go. Do we hand them out to random strangers? Or wait to stumble across someone sad-faced and in-need-of-exactly-ten-minus-one roses? No- we decide instead to let the rest of the evening decide for us.
Walking along a brightly-lit street, lined with shop windows full of very nice and very unneccessary things, we turn impulsively onto a sidestreet. No more shop windows,only mostly darkened office buildings, except for one lighted door through which we see an older woman with a duster in her hand and no idea that she is being watched as she works. She is cleaning up after a long day. Tomorrow people will walk through that door, perhaps they will notice the spotlessness, perhaps not.
The evening has made its decision. I cross the street and knock on the locked door. She opens it with a puzzled expression that deepens when I tell her that I just wanted to give her these flowers.' For you,' I say, 'because we were walking by and saw you working so hard and thought you might like to take these home with you.' Her face eases into a smile, she is looking at the roses in a way that makes them seem more beautiful than I'd thought them a mere minute ago. 'Thank You,' she says in her lilting, accented English.
And then we walk on. Unsure that she will be able to understand the little card hidden among the buds, but knowing without doubt that the spirit behind it was not lost in translation.
once visitng a friend in the hospital she gave me her flowers (due to allergies) when leaving the hospital I left flowers in other rooms on the bedside tables,,the smiles in return made my day