Writing Prompt

In the quaint town of Silver Pines, Minnesota, there is a small flower shop. It was built when the town was founded and has supplied every wedding in the area for 46 years. They have beautiful arrangements and flowers only grown in the native woods. This is something a young man name James knows well. Every first Monday of the month, he stops by to buy a blossom by the name of Silver Leaf. It is often bought for its looks, and not remembered by its poison.

Every day I would show up at that same little shop,

It was to see her, the lady that owned the little shop,

And every day I would buy the same flower a little red rose,

And every day she gave the same response, you picked the best one yet,

My love for her blossomed like my red rose, it grew every day,

But this was my unrequited love, so I’ll just keep buying a rose from her the most precious flower there.

1954 the bell rang three chimes a boy walked in, no older than fourteen at best he asked if we had purple roses with their thorns clipped off of the stems they were for a girl he said, he didn't want her to cut her skin on thorns

1964 the boy, now the man had gotten the same flower every day for ten years the same purple rose with the point thorns clipped off to protect his love at one point i must have asked the boy, the man, who his roses were for he simply smiled at me and said they were for the most beautiful girl

1969 the man walked to me a bounce in his step unlike i had seen before his face was aglow lit with a beautiful smile a ring in his hand he asked if i could weave the ring through a bouquet of purple roses i had nearly swooned and I wasn't the one being wed I said of course, yes

1979 the most beautiful wedding i will ever see purple roses bloom ten years later and trying for kids on the way names already picked if a girl, charlotte and if a boy, sebastian they put both to use siblings, family mom and dad, char and sebby happy and carefree

1989 sebastian and charlotte they are just over ten now the man, he still buys the rose there are three of them now, one purple, pink, and blue wife, daughter, and son i have seen them grow from infants to toddlers and now to fifth graders they don’t know who i am, but that’s okay, i guess i’ll just watch, sidelined

1997 kids heading off to college, i’ve seen the man with his baseball hats with their college name on it charlotte and sebastian are going to the hot hot world of california i will stay in my flower shop until they come back to buy more flowers and reminisce in the roses their dad gave them when they were kids but the man still comes into the shop i think i think he’s sending the flowers to them from across the country this family, this family is beautiful i don’t have a family but that’s okay maybe i’ll get there one day

2000 im too old now to stand at the counter and clip the roses for the man and his big big family i sit in a little wheelchair by the window and he knows me he knows me he waves everyday he buys a flower for me, red, my favorite color i wonder how he knows that he speaks to me but i can’t remember what he says his voice is familiar but i just can’t remember “mom, how are you doing today? are you feeling better than yesterday?” he said those words to me and for a moment a moment i remembered my little boy, my little ryan running through the rain tripping on a bump in the pavement so i kissed his forehead and handed him a rose a white rose and held the thornless stem to his cheek “i clipped off the thorns for you so they wouldn’t hurt you. it’ll be already, baby.”

then it was gone the little boy was gone and there was a man standing over my chair staring at me holding my arm i began to cry because i was scared but he wrapped me in his arms he pressed a red rose to my cheek “it’ll be okay, mama. i love you and i know you’ll remember me eventually.”

I remember the day he walked in distinctly.

It was the fourth of February, a hazy and cold morning filled with fog and cars quietly rolling through rain puddles. What had already felt like a drowsy day was worsened when I came down with a sinus headache. I took some Tylenol and eagerly awaited the end of my shift. I worked at Butterfly Blooms, a name too peppy for its looks. The cheap store had worn white paint and leak stains on the ceiling. The flowers there seemed stale and dying in my opinion, but it might’ve been the grainy white light that made them seem more for a doctor’s office than a flower shop.

I clicked my pen on and off in a rhythm, watching the rain coated passerbys through the wide windows. Many acknowledged me briefly before bringing their eyes downward again and keeping their pace along the faded sidewalk.

As quickly as I had glanced downward at my pen and back up, there was a man staring at me through the window. It wasn’t in a horror movie staring way, more of an old man confused on what he’s looking at way.

I sat up a bit and waved at the man still staring in the window. He acknowledged me and gave a delayed wave. He had fuzzy white hair that poked out from the hood of his green rain coat. His round, delicate glasses were clouded with raindrops as he finally opened the door and came in.

“Hello there and welcome to Butterfly Blooms!” I chimed, already raising my voice in case he was hard of hearing. He gave a wry chuckle, like there was something he knew that I didn’t. I continued on with my forced peppy chatter and hoped wouldnt have to last long.

“Anything in particular your looking for? We’ve got lots of roses for Valentines day.”

“No, I know exactly what I want, but thank you.” he said in a polite tone. He turned down the aisle of flowers. I watched him suspiciously as he made his way past our best and brightest bouquets to the very corner of our store to the point where I couldn’t see him.

I leaned forward, setting my pen down on the counter as I did so. His back was to me and he was moving an old Butterfly Blooms sign. Behind it was where we hid baskets of wilted flowers that we donate to the children’s hospital at the end of the day.

“Excuse me, sir,” I ventured, my voice a mixture of concern and confusion. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He glanced up at me, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of mischief and nostalgia. “Ah, yes,” he replied, his voice soft and raspy. “I’m just looking for a particular flower.”

I couldn’t help but be intrigued by his cryptic words. “What kind of flower are you looking for?” I asked, stepping closer.

He smiled wistfully, his gaze drifting back to the bin of discarded blossoms. “A forgotten one,” he murmured.

I frowned, and before I could inquire further, he reached into the bin and plucked out a single wilted rose. It was withered and faded, its once vibrant petals now limp and lifeless.

“This,” he said, holding out the sad bloom towards me. “This is the one.”

I couldn’t hide my confusion any longer. “But sir, that flower is dying. Do you want some of our roses over there?” I pointed out the vibrant, lively bouquets towards the front of the store.

The man simply shook his head gently. “No thank you. This is the one.”

That flower should’ve been free, but he seemed eager to buy it so I charged him 5 cents and watched as he wandered out of the store.

The next morning at 9:00 he returned and bought another wilted, dying bloom with a smile. I was able to contain my confusion until he came back the next day. And the next. And the day after that. He came to Butterfly Blooms every day for a week straight, buying the same wimpy, weak flowers. The employees and I at Butterfly Blooms came to know the man as Mr. Taft.

At one point I tried to make it easier and picked out a wilted flower for him to be ready when he came in. He simply denied me with a curteous smile, insisting he pick.

After he had been coming for two weeks, I built up the courage to ask him why.

“Mr. Taft, why do you always buy flowers like these?” I asked softly, motioning towards the feeble white bloom of today.

Mr. Taft looked up from his wallet where he was fishing for a nickel and grinned sadly, the wrinkles around his eyes stretching.

“Well.. lets say I was given a job.” he said, handing over the nickel.

“How so?” I pryed, placing the nickel in the register with a clink.

He folded his wallet and cleared his throat. “My wife. She loved flowers. Even ones—eh, past their prime.” he motioned towards the dying rose, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “So when she died, she made me promise to come here everyday and buy her a dying flower to decorate her grave with. I think she.. knew I would need something to do.”

I felt a heavy pressure on my chest as I closed the cash register. “That’s.. beautiful.” was all I could manage to say without crying.

Mr. Taft tried to smile, but the corner of his mouth tugged down and I could see tears glinting in his eyes. He heaved a heavy breath. “Would you walk with me to visit her today?”

“Of course.” I said, smiling softly as I placed my arm in the crook of his.

So it became a daily tradition, seeing Mr. Taft and letting him buy his flower. And on occasion, we would walk up to the hill where Mrs. Taft lay.

It was the middle of May when 9:00 am rolled around and Mr. Taft had not yet come. We immediately knew something was wrong.

Mr. Taft had passed away in his sleep, peacefully and all alone in the comfort of his home.

So now, before heading home every day, I pick out two wilted flowers and toss in a dime.

Monday. Six pm. On the dot. They run into the flower shop. They get a singular sweet pea.

Tuesday. Six pm. On the dot. They run into the flower shop. They get a singular sweet pea.

Wednesday. Six pm. On the dot. They run into the flower shop. They get a singular sweet pea.

Thursday. Six pm. On the dot. They run into the flower shop. They get a singular sweet pea.

Friday. Six pm. On the dot. They run into the flower shop. They get a singular sweet pea.

Saturday . Six pm. On the dot. They run into the flower shop. They get a singular sweet pea.

Sunday. Six pm. On the dot. They gather all six sweet peas. They go to the pier and sit.

Weeks go by, The schedule never changes. Six pm was their time. Their time to reflect.

The flower shop soon picks on such behaviors from this young individual They ask, “Why do you always come in at six pm and get one singular sweet pea.”

They blush with embarrassment. They answer, “Well, you see, I’ve struggled, Struggled with letting things go, Struggled with saying goodbyes. The flower resembles much more than you think.”

The flower shop, eager to know more, Asks the individual, “Symbolically, what does the sweet pea mean and why six pm”

Shining through their skin with nervousness, They answer, “The sweet pea resembles goodbyes. I purchase one everyday, Right before you close.”

“But we are open on sundays” The flower shops states interrupting them “What about Sundays, why don’t you come in”

“Sundays are special for me” They replied “Sundays I collect all six flowers, From Monday to Saturday. I collect them and take them to the pier up by the lake.”

“What’s so special about the pier? Do you still go at six pm?” The flower shop asked,  interested

“Why yes, I still go at six. I take all six flowers and I reflect on the week. One by one, I grab each flower and reflect” They begin to further explain

“I sit and I reflect and speak to myself. The first flower, represents Monday. The sixth flower represents Saturday. I take each one and I state three things about each day.” They state

The flower shop, Pauses them again, “What three things do you say about each day?”

“Good question” They replied. “I focus on three things. First I think bout the best thing that happened that day. Secondly, I think about the worst thing that happened that day. Finally, I think about what changes I can make for the next week to come.”

“Once I do that, I take each flower And I toss it into the lake, Saying my goodbyes.”

“But, but isn’t that foolish to just toss them” The flower shop asked. “They last longer than a few days.”

“While you are correct, They do last longer than a week” They begin to explain

“It takes away from the symbolization. The sweet pea resembles goodbyes. Goodbyes are hard, however, Goodbyes are often needed. If we continue to hold onto the feelings, After a while, those feelings may hurt. If we don’t say our goodbyes, we will let those feelings continually hurt.”

Catching on, The flower shop inquires, “Is this why you do it near closing time”

They answer proudly, “Yes, I do all of this near closing time as it closes out one week And it starts my next week on a set closure- to provide opening. While I can still feel everything from last week, It gave closure. It gave everything it needed to let me grow. It gave everything I needed to open the next week up, Open it in a new, cared, and seen way.”

They provided themselves with the closure time needs - one sweet pea at a time.

A gloomy day, rain tapped our windows I filled the roses in their pot I watered the tulips, like i do a lot I filled the white daisies, the flower of lows.

I waited at the counter, a small grin on my face Watching the old man walk in, seemingly in the wrong place? He seems distraught, yet that’s probably why he’s in a black suit and tie.

He paid in cash, a small tear hit his coin I avoided eye contact, for I know his tear would mean. “See you in awhile.” He said to me I hope when he returns, he’ll value these white daisies leaves like me.

I forgot the old man as time came and went I never expected him to come again yet when i saw the rain pellet on the window the old man eased him, his face mellow.

He slowly slid toward the bright white daises he grabbed one by its stem, and slid his thumb over the leaves he loves them like me

He paid in cash his small smile a mask i know he hurts within hopefully he finds him a new friend

year two strolled in like the old man and his empty hand as normal, the rain rolled down the window again he smiled at me his mask up, never to end

This year, unlike previous his clothes casual, jeans and jacket his smile more genuine, im curious he pays cash, he’s hurried, he’s in and out like magic.

His change in demeanor is new i wonder if he moved on in time yet i feel like he’s trying to do what he needs too instead of healing his mind

year 3, me and this man the rain on the window and the white daisies in their pot and can. I glance down, and see my black suit, my confusion is— Oh.

I glance back up to the man, and my eyes slide to the side I see where he ends on the left of the mirror, I sigh. My feet have been stuck in the same spot, since i walked in.

my heart drops, I reach my hand into the pot I think about everything that was, and now is not. I wonder if i’ll make it to year 3 like my mind showed me.

I wander to the counter slowly I set my daisies down and a smile to the mirror shows me That my wrinkles are far worse and maybe i’ll be next in a hearse.

the cashier hands me my change, and I leave the florist shop in a rage. I wish my wife would’ve told me she wouldn’t make it or stay I would’ve asked her for her favorite flowers before she passed away.

One rose Everyday One rose Always the same Always there Who is he? Who is it for? This single rose intrigues me

Why not red? Or yellow? Why this white rose? Why always? Who is it for? I’ll never know

In a world where time moves forward, like grains of sand, There unfolds a tale, mysterious and grand. Everyday, like clockwork, this scene takes its place, A character, enigmatic, weaves through cosmic space.

To a quaint little flower shop, they venture near, A silent observer, with a heart full of sheer. Their intentions hidden, as if locked in a chest, An enigma worth deciphering, at its very best.

With the day's first light, they become the story frame, Stepping through the door, where flowers bloom untamed. Eyes like distant oceans, brimming with secret sighs, Gently they select, the same bouquet with searching eyes.

Crimson roses whisper tales of love divine, Blue forget-me-nots, memories forever entwined. Yellow daisies, like sunbeams, radiate pure delight, Each delicate petal, holds visions hidden from sight.

But why does this character, like a moth to the flame, Return time and again, to engage in this same game? Do the flowers hold secrets from a distant past? Or perhaps, whispered dreams from a love that couldn't last?

Could it be that the blooms, in their fragrant surrender, Mirror a soul's journey, reaching out to remember? Petals soft like whispers, their language all their own, Sending coded messages, to a heart that's long been known.

Do they speak of remorse, or hopes left unfulfilled? Are they tokens of gratitude, love's vows gently distilled? Are they odes to lost chapters, now faded with time? Or gentle reminders that life's moments are prime?

The character, unsurpassed in mystery's allure, Leaves the shop, bouquet in hand, thoughts unadorned, secure. Every single day, a silent pact is made, As the cycle commences, a secret still cascades.

And as we stand, curious, compelled to ask why, We ponder on the reasons that remain shrouded, high. The character, their purpose, whispers beyond our scope, Forever anchored to a flower, their mysterious hope.

So let us marvel at life's enigmatic play, Where secrets lay concealed, beneath flowers' bouquets. For in those blossoms, lies an evergreen refrain, A mystery yet untangled, a story that will remain.

If life was meant for love For you and me It wouldn’t have ended this way If flowers are said to grow They are also said to die If I hadn’t told you to go It wouldn’t have ended this way If this is life’s way of making me apologize Then flowers you shall have I’ll set them on your grave I wish it didn’t end this way I wish, that love That hearts and minds Could heal the pain All I wish is that it didn’t end this way

Every day, I wake up at the stroke of 5 I open my eyes, and rise to greet the day There is no joy or hate in my method But a simple need to function and carry on I allow movement through my limbs in the form of yoga A quiet melody plays in the background Bringing a splash of color to an otherwise grey canvas The coffee maker bubbles A warm cup of energy and desire awaits The aroma has grown consuming It has had a few moments to cool Ensuring the safety of my mouth and stomach I then proceed to lay out my morning clothes Every day is the same A light rain and slightly cool temperatures A parka and toque will work wonders I strap on my boots, and I am out the door Never bothering to lock the door behind me Locked doors are unnecessary roadblocks I need to be efficient when I return I walk the block and arrive at my destination A small shop on the corner with worn out cedar shakes Turned grey from decades of sunshine The outside looks frigid But inside, the warmth awaits I greet the clerk with a simple “hello” And carry on through to the green house out back I have come here every day for the past 4 years In hopes that one day I shall see it bloom The Titan arum Somehow it’s here, and somehow I’ve become entranced I’ve told myself that things will change once I see it bloom But that day has yet to come It’s easier to put fate in the pedals of a flower Than in the hands of myself Perhaps that is a metaphor for life Or the description of someone crippled by fear I open the door and look up A flower still green and closed It is not ready to greet the world So neither am I Tomorrow I shall return Perhaps that will be the start of me living For now, I shall carry on being Until I am greeted With the bloom of a flower