Every Thursday at around 3 p.m., we saw him.
same cart with motors. The same JEGS hat in yellow. And in the basket, the identical red rose bouquet—always—always. He would drive right by the deli, enter the flower area, select the largest bunch, and sniff them as if they were still significant.
At one point, my colleague Kira asked him, “Is today a special occasion?”
“Not today,” he simply stated with a smile. Only Thursday.
I was fascinated, so I decided to follow him out that week. With unsteady hands, he packed his goods into a beige vehicle. He opened the passenger door after taking his time and cleaning the dashboard as if it were important.
I noticed her at that point.
Even with a faded cardigan, she exuded elegance. With a velvet ribbon, gray hair was pulled back. She appeared to be in a completely different place, her eyes wide and blank.
Without saying anything, he gave her the roses.
She regarded them as though they were the first flowers she had ever seen.
then grinned.
She questioned, “Are these from the man who used to bring me flowers?”
He hesitated a fraction of a second. then gave a nod.
Yes, dear. each Thursday.
He helped her buckle up and kissed her forehead.
Heart in my throat, I stood there like a fool, staring.
And I kept thinking about how painful it must be to be remembered as a stranger by the person who used to know everything about you.
However, the following week?
He returned.
at the same moment. The same hat. The same roses.
But this time, he also picked up a second bouquet.
and concealed a message within that one.
As he wheeled the cart, I watched it slide out—folded, scribbled, with only three words visible:
“Just in case she…”
I kept thinking about those roses, the vacant expression in her eyes, and the man wearing the yellow JEGS hat and his silent adoration. It was a tale of love that persisted even as memory faded, enshrined in flowers and wordless gestures.
I was keen to see what the message stated on Thursday of the next week. I stood close to the flower area and pretended to look at the lilies. As anticipated, he arrived with his cart humming pleasantly. After picking the customary roses, he gathered a second, smaller bouquet of white daisies with care. He folded a small card, wrote something on it, and nestled it into the daisies.
I was unable to stop him as he turned to go. “Pardon me, sir?” My voice trembled a little as I spoke. “What does the note say?”
His blue eyes wrinkled at the corners as he came to a halt. His voice was soft as he replied, “It’s just a little reminder.” “For her.”
“A reminder of what?” I inquired, my interest rising.
His smile was lovely and melancholy. To me, she is who she is. Of the person she will always be.
He didn’t go into detail, but I didn’t require it. I got it. It was more important to remind her of the sensation of being loved and treasured than it was to bring up certain memories.
I observed their routine over the course of the following few weeks. The peaceful trip home, the daisies, the roses. I saw minor adjustments. She would occasionally give him a smile and address him by name, which I subsequently discovered to be Silas. At other times, her eyes would hunt for a familiar face as she looked at him in perplexity.
Sunflowers took the place of the daisies one Thursday. His steps were a little slower, and he appeared exhausted. “She liked the sunflowers,” he said to the clerk as he paid for the flowers. She was reminded of her garden by them.
With understanding in her eyes, the cashier nodded. “You’re fortunate to have her, sir.”
“No, ma’am,” he simply responded with a smile. I am the fortunate one.
Their automobile was parked close to the exit while I was leaving the store later that day. With his head resting against the steering wheel, Silas occupied the driver’s seat. Sunflowers were strewn on the seat and the passenger door was open.
I walked carefully up. “Are you okay, sir?” I inquired.
His eyes were burning as he looked up. “She recalled the garden,” she said. Just for a second. Take a minute. “Silas, do you recall the sunflowers?” she asked. Then she disappeared once more.
His voice was heavy with passion as he hesitated. However, it was worthwhile. Every sunflower, daisy, and rose. All of it is worthwhile for those moments.
A few weeks later, the twist was revealed. I noticed Silas enter the room while I was working late, stacking shelves. Instead of a Thursday, it was a Tuesday. He appeared calmer and different. He proceeded directly to the floral area, selecting a little potted lavender plant in place of roses or daisies.
After making the payment, he turned to face me. His voice was firm as he stated, “She died this morning.” “Calmly, while she slept.”
My heart fell. I muttered, “I’m so sorry.”
He grinned, a kind, tolerant grin. She is now at peace. And I have all of those bouquets and all of those experiences. They are now my garden.
The lavender, he informed me, was for his kitchen window. He said, “She always loved the smell of lavender.”
I discovered that the notes, those brief words, were for him as much as for her. They served as a reminder of their shared existence, their love, and the woman she was before recollection clouded her judgment. She had been a poet and writer, he informed me, and even when she was unable to talk, her words served as his compass.
The moral of the narrative is that love endures beyond recollection and is embodied in the little, commonplace acts of kindness and the steadfast dedication to cherishing someone even when they are unable to do so. It’s about creating a garden of memories that thrive despite loss and discovering beauty in the few moments of clarity.
Love is about making a present that honors the past, not just about remembering it. It’s about discovering beauty in memory’s frailty and power in vulnerability.
Please share if this story resonated with you. Tell someone that love endures even when memories fade. And please like it if you liked it. Every like encourages the propagation of tales like this, which serve as a constant reminder of the strength of unshakable love.
