Flowers came to my house every other Monday around 1 o’clock. I still had no clue as to who was doing this, but I appreciated them nonetheless. Depending on the season, I would get beautiful pompom dahlias or gorgeous hyacinths, handsome lilies or wonderful peonies. They were always delivered by a floral shop from downtown on Main and Cherry. I remember asking them on several occasions who was sending them and why. Every time I asked, the replied with a smile and a little card, the same card that comes attached to each bouquet.
To the woman more beautiful than all the flowers in the world. May these brighten your day and your heart. You always deserve to smile.
I asked my neighbors and they said they had no idea who it could be. Family and friends simply shrugged and stated they didn’t know. The floral shop wouldn’t spill their secrets about this anonymous flower sender, so I eventually accepted that someone was doing an act of kindness. I gave up my search, simply being grateful for the reminders that I mattered in the world, until one day, I didn’t receive flowers. One Monday at 1 o’clock, instead of flowers, I got a tiny potted cactus with a little red bulb on the top. I pondered it for a while, standing on my porch in a sundress I had just dug up from the depths of my closet. A string tied the usual note to it, but added a new line:
Go to the floral shop, for this is your last gift, and you deserve to find your answer.