Running with Flowers

You don’t expect to get knocked onto pavement by a woman four times your age, particularly at eleven in the morning. While getting back up, some sort of primal need for revenge takes over as your vision clears. Perhaps you will have enough time to push that person that pushed you and you can shake hands now that the playing field has evened. Once back on your feet, some sense of empathy sets back in, the animal you were four feet ago has calmed down, and all you’re left with is the vague sight of the perpetrator. She doesn’t look back at you, or anyone for that matter, for all you know you are one of several people she’s knocked to the ground on her rampant escapade. All you’re left with as you come back to your senses is the vague image of her. A short woman, gray hair, flowery blouse, a big bouquet of flowers carefully nestled between her arms. With how delicately she held them it looked as if she was carrying a baby. As you resume your aimless walk all you have is the thought of where she’s rushing, and who those precious flowers may be for.

It had been the third time this year that Parker had seen something of the sort. Not necessarily the careless violence of the senior citizen from before, but a mindless rush with flowers in hand nonetheless. It was an image that particularly struck them each time: perhaps it was the mix of agony in the feet and eyes with the attentiveness to the floral cargo that rung to Parker as rather beautiful. In all three instances the flowers were held in the arms as if they were the most important object in their holder’s life. Each time the sight would stick with Parker for the rest of the day. The curiosity of where the flowers were going. Who they were for. What the rush was and if that rush would be worth it.

The first time she had seen such a display was in early February. She was in a cafe eating the crumbs of a pastry she had finished an hour ago. The coffee cup by her was full yet completely cold at this point. She often ordered coffee in hopes of displaying signs of a mature adult but deep down craved something more juvenile like apple juice or chocolate milk. Her eyes had been targeted out the cafe’s window for a matter of minutes. Nothing exciting was particularly happening but it was akin to watching a sports game she didn’t know the rules to at a bar, a common occurrence. Just something to occupy the eyes.

It was a busy street; bundled up couples, families and dog walkers, yet it seemed as if they all moved at the same leisurely pace. That’s when Mr. Flowers came in to spoil the consistency. As soon as the man—maybe early to mid forties—ran past the window, he tripped over something, perhaps a branch or a discarded shoe, and crashed to the pavement. It seemed everyone in the cafe, even those whose backs were turned to what happened, felt the pain of the man. A collective cringe somehow rung through the building. It happened in slow motion to Parker, to a degree she was able to note every detail of the man before he even began to trip. She noticed his bald spot, his coffee stained jacket, and most of all the bouquet of roses he had tucked in his arms. They now were spread across the street and sidewalk, perhaps already getting mindlessly crushed by ignorant walkers. The man scrambled back up to his scraped knees and reached for whatever of the flowers he could still salvage. Parker felt wrong not having an urge to help but felt some sort of moral protection by having glass between her and the situation.

It did begin to bug Parker as the day went on. Not just the image of the man flying onto his face, but the question of where he was running to. The sad image of him collecting the bent and bruised roses in hopes of keeping something beautiful together. She imagined the man was married, for whatever reason she could tell if someone was married or not rather easily. The way a husband or wife walks has an obnoxious type of “I was able to find someone and you weren’t” step that becomes obvious from miles away. Married folks have given half of their everything to another person, which made Parker feel rather lonely with all the extra space that left them.

She imagined the married man had perhaps messed up somehow. He said or did something that upset his other half. What that was, Parker wasn’t sure, but there was a desperation to his run that made the flowers seem like a last ditch effort at recovery. It is funny and sort of adorable to think that a bouquet of flowers could sweeten or make anything better, but it seemed to be a theory many romantics held. She wondered if she had perhaps seen the last straw that ends their relationship. Maybe if he didn’t trip he would bring the flowers to his upset partner and they would be so touched they’d forgive him for the horrid thing he may have done. Or at least take the first steps to forgiving him. Surely that’s why he was running, attempting to get to that forgiveness, that solution, as fast as humanly possible. Without the flowers would the man run just as fast? Or would he walk the rest of the journey, wilted roses flopping by his side as his head droops down like Charlie Brown. Perhaps he knew from the trip that the relationship was over, and the rest of the walk was spent processing the fate that awaited him. With the rush he was in he surely didn’t have time to get a replacement, and after the realization had settled in he may not even have bothered. The flowers may have been a nice distraction, maybe part of a nice date that gives the couple another few weeks of peace, but the end would come all the same. The problems would arise again, the fights would surface back and before he knew it the husband would be running through the streets with a bouquet of flowers all over again.

Parker imagined seeing the man again, running or still. She wondered what she would ask him if she had the chance to, how many of her theories she would try and run by him. By the time they’d meet he maybe had already been sleeping on a friend’s couch. He’d walk around the world trying his best to remain the same. Confused as to how everyone around him is behaving as normal. There’s this thing when your world shatters where you expect everyone to be broken. You expect everyone at the grocery store to be in a frenzy, news outlets to report on how things have irreparably changed. It takes a while to tell if it makes it harder or easier that you’re seemingly alone on this one. Parker always found it much harder.

She decided to imagine the man showing up to his house. His flowers messed up, his palms red, what hair he had left a mess. His wife would see the sad display in front of her and take pity on him. She’d help him wash up and put the one decent rose into a vase. They’d have dinner and talk, not just about the problems they were having but the little things that made up their shared world. How their days were. It’d be a nice dinner. The two would go to bed and discuss more in the morning. This is the fate Parker landed on as they drifted off to bed that night. She hoped it made him feel silly for rushing at all.

A few months later, must have been June or July, Parker was sitting on a park bench reading. She couldn’t remember the book now, but she remembered she liked whatever she was reading that day. It was quite loud at the park that day; people her age blasting music and shouting their conversations for some reason. She had a bag of pretzels she slowly snacked on throughout the day. If she was smart with them they could last her through dinner. She was particularly invested in her book when what felt like a big gust of wind flew past her. Her eyes darted up to a mother and child. They were turning a corner up ahead by the time Parker looked up, the child held their mother with one hand and gripped onto a bundle of flowers with the other. They looked either handpicked, or bought from someone who was rather lazy with packaging them. Seeing them immediately flashed the husband from months earlier, causing Parker to immediately head into another round of conspiracy, or as she considered it, curiosity mode.

She painted the picture of the charming mother and child day at the park hijacked by the panicked rush that just passed her by. There was something wholly innocent about the child, following the parent they’re glued to, knowing they’d follow them to the end of the Earth. It made Parker think of her own mom. She missed her. She should call her. It made her wonder why she hadn’t called her lately. They used to talk every day, it was routine, neither knew who broke the routine first. When she sees kids with their parents she sees future relationships that will drift apart. She tries not to think about it like that. She knows it’s awfully cynical but sometimes the thoughts attack her.

Where was this mother taking their child? Who were the flowers for and why was the kid the one carrying them? Surely putting the responsibility in the kid’s hands is just asking for a repeat of what happened with the married man. Perhaps Parker was just projecting their own clumsiness as a child onto them. She assumed they were for a grandparent or maybe the kid’s father, but what could possibly be the rush. If it’s some party or dinner surely they could afford to be a few minutes late, but maybe they cared more about punctuality than Parker. Perhaps they had just been running for fun, the mother looked fit, maybe she was just teaching her kid the importance of exercise. The idea crossed Parker’s mind of this being the married man’s wife and child but there wasn’t much evidence for that. None at all to be exact.

They also wondered where the flowers were from. If maybe the two of them picked them out themselves, the perfectionism of the activity causing them to be late to wherever they were now headed. She wasn’t even sure if people still handpicked bouquets, she’d never met anybody who received or gifted such a thoughtful set. Parker had received store bought flowers as a gift once, from her date to a school dance. The stems of the arrangement were all bent and they all died after a week. She was so in love with the guy she didn’t particularly care or even really notice the faults of the flowers. Feelings are funny that way. The idea of someone picking each flower carefully out of the earth, carving a set tailor made for whoever the flowers were going to, Parker couldn’t think of anything more thoughtful.

She walked to a local boutique as she continued her train of thought. The book that once had her full attention was shunned to the bottom of her bag next to used floss picks and napkins. She wandered the shop looking for an arrangement that stuck out to her. The light switch between thinking about that and the child from before kept flipping in her head. She imagined the custom set of flowers reaching their owner, in her head this was the child’s grandma. The grandma would be so overjoyed, somehow she’d be able to tell they were hand picked. She’d give her daughter a big hug and her grandchild an even bigger one. Somehow there would already be an empty vase ready for them and the freshly displayed flowers would sit at the family table as they all enjoyed their cake and coffee.

Parker landed on a set of dahlia’s, an arrangement she walked home with and set up at her kitchen as she ate her microwaved dinner.

This image ran again through Parker’s head as she watched the elderly woman who pushed her over run off. Where could she possibly be going in such a rush? For the first time this year, for the first time ever, Parker ran after her. Not to get revenge, or yell at her, or even speak to her at all, Parker just needed to know where she was going. Thankfully the woman stopped a few times to catch her breath, allowing moments to gain on her. Parker started to slow down as she got closer, she didn’t want to scare her despite her maybe deserving it. Her brain didn’t even have the space to theorize where the woman was going, all she could think of is how out of breath she already was and how she should probably do something about that. The woman turned the corner and ran into a restaurant. A nice Italian place Parker had been to once with her mom. She stared through the window as she caught her breath. The elderly woman walked up to a man, a similar looking age, too busy shoving buttered bread in his face to notice her. Parker watched as they finally locked eyes. How he got up to hug his date and how grateful he was for the flowers she brought him. He looked down at them, truly touched, as if it was the first time someone had brought him flowers. Perhaps it was. Parker couldn’t tell the dynamic, if these two were friends, dating, married, family, perhaps it was the first time they’d ever met. Whatever relationship was between them it was clear the two had loved another. The woman was recounting the story of her journey there to her captive audience of one. Parker was satisfied with the answer they got and headed back on their way.

She didn’t really have much of an idea what to do with her day. She was charmed by the voyeurestic pleasures of the display they stumbled across, but it didn’t add any direction to what was already an aimless walk through the city. She thought back to the restaurant as she strayed further away from it. The memory of going there with her mother after some high school play took over her head. The sharp reality of how little she speaks to her mother stabbed her again. The last time she saw someone with flowers was four months ago and they’d spoken maybe twice in the time. They lived maybe a thirty minute train from another and Parker did so little with that luxury.

That thought went through her head one more time. Then another thought of realization. Parker’s pace then started to quicken as they headed to the local boutique.