Stolen Flowers

A friend of mine at work has been sending me story prompts that have been simmering in my brain while I sit quietly at my desk and try not to explode. Here's one of them: 

Every single day, a young man would steal flowers from an elderly woman's garden on the way to see his fiance. 

After a month of this happening, the elderly woman caught him and told him that he can continue to pick her flowers, but only if he showed her that his fiance was not only pretty enough to warrant flower theft, but that they were truly happy with each other.

As they walked together, the elderly woman rambled on about true love and how precious it was. However, the young man wasn't listening. He kept trying to figure out a way to break it to her that they were on the way to the cemetery. 

So, here's what came out of it: 

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Loose grit crunched like snow under his boots as he approached the garden. Gnarled branches twisted through the air like snakes frozen in the act of striking, withered and mottled with moss by the ages that drifted slowly by. A huge rose bush rambled aimlessly against the fence, making an almost impenetrable barrier - almost, but not quite.

Hal glanced around quickly, then grinned to himself as he pushed one of the fence slats. It swung up and out on its rusty nail, parting the thorny creepers and holding them at bay as he slipped through, just out of reach of sharp, grabbing twigs.

A neglected air pervaded the fenced yard, scraggly bushes boasting an overabundance of flowers while weeds riddled the bleached bark mulch below. A bed of huge, colorful daffodils rioted in the corner with tulips and lilies of the valley, tangled with dandelions and queen anne’s lace and thistle. Opposite the daffodils a raised bed seemed to be collapsing under a profusion of strawberry plants, spilling over the edges like wine from a drunkard’s cup.

Cautiously, ever aware of the yellowed lace curtains in the windows and what eyes they might be concealing, the young man moved toward the tulips. Jenna had always loved tulips, and these were the largest and brightest to be found. As he pulled out his pocket knife, eyeing a purple-black bud, he caught a whiff of mint. As far as he knew, there was no mint in this garden. Hal straightened, turning to find the source of the smell, and a wrinkled hand descended on his shoulder with surprising strength. The old lady was muffled in a bulky wool coat that had to be at least three sizes too big for her, the sleeves rolls back twice to expose hands as gnarled as the apple tree’s snaky branches.

“So you’re the one what’s been nicking my flowers. Didn’ your mum teach ya it’s wrong ta take things what don’ belong to ya?” The old woman’s slurred accent did nothing to dim the sharp intelligence in her eyes, and Hal had a feeling that if she had wanted to, she probably could have sounded every bit as intelligent as she was. Women who pretended to be less intelligent were more dangerous than the opposite.

“Yes ma’am, she did. I didn’t mean to-”

“Didn’ mean ta sneak through my fence an’ take flowers from an ol’ woman?” she asked sharply, and the young man flushed.

“To get caught,” he finished meekly.

The old woman cackled, clearly amused by his honesty. “Well, tell me what ya been nickin’ my flowers for, eh? Got a pretty girl ya givin’ ‘em to?”

“Well, in a way.”

“In a way? Ain’t she your girl, then? Or are ya tryin’ ta steal the girl with stolen flowers?” Her eyes sparkled with intrigue, and before Hal could properly respond (or say much of anything other than “um”) she went gabbling on right over anything he might have tried to say. “Well, it’s no matter to me. But I wan’ta see this girl, hear? I won’t give up my flowers to no plain-lookin’ biddy without no looks about her. An’ another thing - she better be happy with ya, got it? I won’t have my flowers bein’ used ta rile up some poor girl what doesn’t what nothin’ ta do with ya, got it?”

Hal found himself being steered, towed, and otherwise dragged along by the old hag, out through the gate and onto the street. She produced a delicate glass rose from an inside pocket of her enormous coat and gave it to him with a challenging look in her eyes.

“There ya go. Now, show me the girl, eh? Time’s a-waistin’.” 

Hal reluctantly took the glass rose and started walking, listening to her talk about ‘true love’ and how when she was a young girl, her beaus wouldn’t have dared give her stolen flowers, and how she was sure his girl was beautiful. He didn’t say anything.

Quietly, he led her two blocks north and one block east of her dingy little house, then through an open gate bearing the legend “Lost Creek Cemetery.” The cemetery felt like a huge park from the gate, with stretches of grass that was just long enough to seem natural, but not so tall that it looked overgrown. A paved drive wound up the hill to the cluster of stone monuments, and it was there that Hal turned his step.

“A graveyard? My, ain’t you darin’? That’s a different kind o’ romance, ya know. That’s the kind what they teach about in lit’rature classes and all.” Her approving words didn’t succeed in coaxing any sort of comment from him. He silently helped her along the drive, allowing the old lady to lean on him as they made their way up the slope. He thought absently that she must be roasting in that wool coat, but she didn’t take it off.

When they reached the cemetery, he made his way toward a small white tombstone, where he knelt and removed yesterday’s wilted tulip, and replaced it with the glass rose.

Jenna Hudson

1990 - 2015

“Pneumonia,” he said quietly. “She didn’t react well to the medicine they gave her.” The old woman, for once, was silent. Hal stood with a sigh, brushing grass blades from his knees. “I’m sorry I took your flowers without asking.”

He turned to look at the old woman, hands clasped. She surveyed him with a new look of respect, and that softening that told him she pitied him.

“Been a long time since I saw anyone leave flowers on a grave like that,” she admitted, and her words weren’t as slurred or as loud as they had been earlier. “She was a lucky girl, she was, to have a man like you.”

Hal glanced at the gravestone and sighed. “Maybe. But I wish she’d stayed.”

“Don’t we all, love? Come on down, and I’ll make you a cuppa. Look like ya need it. Maybe you an’ me, we can make a deal. You help me take care of my garden, an’ you can take as many flowers as ya want, assumin’ there’s still some left for me ta look at, eh?”

“I’d like that, ma’am.”

“There’s a lad. Come on, then, and you can tell me all about your girl.” She took his arm and turned him gently away from Jenna’s grave, the little old woman and the tall, lean young man. The glass rose caught the sunlight, throwing shards of red light across the white tombstone and highlighting the last words like a girl’s blush.

Always loved, never forgotten.