Every day on my way to work I pass by a grand old house with a beautiful garden set out in the front yard. A sign attached to the mailbox advertises flowers for sale and an elderly man sits in a rocking chair on the wide veranda with a cup of tea by is side and a black labrador at his feet. As each car passes he lifts a thin, age warn hand and waves. Some people honk their horns in response, while others take a hand off the wheel to wave back.
Each week I’ll stop by the flower man to pick up some flowers for my desk. We sit on his veranda and he tells me stories of his days as a fruit shop owner. He tells me each time that I visit about the fruit shop he ran with his wife, who has a memorial under the mango tree in the centre of the garden. Sometimes he tells me about the children that would steel limes, strawberries and other small fruits to throw at passing cars. Once, he even told me about the best way to make a fruity cocktail for my hens night.
Today is different though. The Flower Man no longer sits on his porch and the dog now lays on my lounge. Where is the Flower Man you ask?
He’s in a care home with memories of his wife and a new special lady friend. Each week I bringg him flowers And a basket of fruit in memory of his fruit shop.