The Florist

(2011/3/28 at NTU dorm)

The Florist

As usual, I was reaching for a dictionary on my bookshelf, and there I saw a plate of withered tuberoses lying quietly in front of old and heavy books. A sweet fragrance came out from the petals. They were no longer as white as the clothes of the angels. In fact, they had been shrinking into brown and curled pieces, yet the smell never faded. The intense odor reminds me of the day I first met them.

It was an ordinary Monday. I took the MRT to the hospital at noon and walked toward the medical campus. While I was waiting for the traffic light to turn green, I noticed an old man, sitting in a wheelchair with a large basket held tightly in his thin hands. Bags of white flowers are neatly placed in the basket. ‘He must be selling those flowers,’ I thought. When I was about to take a closer look, the light turned green, and the old man with his flowers were now out of my mind. I kept my way to my destination.

The next week, I was there again, with a stack of books held in my right hand and a viola case in my left hand. It was hard for me to turn around freely in a crowd; however, out of curiosity, I still managed to turn myself toward the florist. When I turned around, my eyes met his, and he quickly turned away his head and yelled at the crowd, “Tuberoses. Fresh… Tuberoses…. Homemade Tuberoses….” I heard the hoarse sound quivering, vibrating the highly compact atmosphere. ‘The words are not spoken fluently,’ I thought, ‘Maybe he has an illness that disabled him from speaking normally.’ Again, the light turned green while I was thinking, and the crowd pushed me out of the deep meditation.

Afraid that the traffic light would ruthlessly cut off the opportunity for me to know more about the seller again, I planned to walk slower. When I reached the roadside, the light turned red, which gives me plenty of time. The florist was now with his head down, not noticing that I was approaching. “Hey. How much is a bag of flowers?” I asked shortly and nervously. “Oh, fifty dollars for each,” he rose his head and replied. “How could I preserve the flowers?” “Put them on a plate and sprinkle several drops of water only after sunset. In that way, you may preserve them for at least ten days……” Though he was poor in speaking, he still struggled to tell me all the knowledge he knew. At that moment, I completely forgot all the disabilities he had. What I saw was his strong sense of responsibility as an honest businessman.

While we were talking, the light turned green. I told him that I had to leave. “Thank you,” he replied and lowered his head again. I thought our conversation had ended. However, as I turned around, he suddenly yelled at me, “Wait a minute!” I turned back, a little shocked. “Remember do not sprinkle waters on the flowers while they are still in the plastic bag!” He continued and looked straightly in my eyes as though he was confirming whether or not I heard what he had just said.

He treated those tuberoses as if they were his children and I was the man who was going to take care of his babies. I was quite amazed at his attitude. How could a seller be better than the florist who saw his product as his own flesh?

Cleaning out the withered flowers, I left an empty plate on the bookshelf. ‘Next time when I meet the florist selling tuberoses,’ I told myself, ‘I will buy a new bag of flowers.’ I could imagine that in the near future, my room will again fill up with the sweet aroma.