Flowers at First Frost

“Flowers for sale. Flowers for sale.” When the sign hung overhead turned uneffective, she often turned to the teachings of her carnival barker of a father. ‘The squeaky wheel gets the grease’, he would say. Never much of a squeaker, her best efforts did little to bring in even a wandering glance from a passerby. Today’s yield of flowers was dismal now that the frost had begun making its way through the county. Summer would bring the Lords and Ladies -- dressed in their Sunday suits and dresses -- to the small town of the Flowerseller. They, with their canes tapping along the sidewalk and pocketbooks jingling with coin to spend, would sashay through Main Street like it were some Venitian promenade, going from storefront to storefront and filling their pockets with whatever trinkets met their fancy.

All this, now replaced with the cold, lifeless air of Winter. The echoing laughter and smells of baked goods and fresh bouquets that seemed to fill the air were overtaken by the loneliness of the frost. The flowers themselves were freshly picked this morning, as they were every morning before the first ray of sunlight reached the cold ground, and yet they were already decaying. The lilies crumbled, unable to hold themselves upright and the sunflowers faded, unable to find any sunlight to color them with golden hue. The frost, ever so greedy, robbed the town of more than the tourist aristocrats as it whipped its way through the cobblestone streets. The usual vendors -- the Butcher with her cart of choice cuts, the Cobbler with his sewing thread and pack of shoeshine boys -- remained inside their homes and shops, kept warm by a roaring fire and whatever booze was hidden behind the counter. 

For the vendors, Summer was little more than a change of scenery. Instead of being stuck inside their shops all day they could walk the Main Street alongside the affluent. Each day they would load their carts, ready their mules, put on their cleanest and finest outfit, and all make their way to the center of the county. But as the sun rose over the mountains and the mules came looking for their feed Butcher saw that the morning dew turned crystalline. 

“Frost. Damned frost.”

Saying only what she thought necessary, the Butcher went to start up the fire and get the shop ready. The mule stayed in his pen and the cart was left propped up against the house; its thin layer of ice reflecting the first rays of light back towards the morning sky. The same was true for the Cobbler, and the Winemaker, and the Grocer, and nearly all the other shopkeeps that spent long summer days dancing through the streets selling their wares. All except the Flowerseller. She, with bouquets clipped and neatly arranged, made her way to the county center like any other day. In truth, it wasn’t until she was setting up her stand that she took note of the frost.

Along the walk, she began to notice a difference -- a quietness as she walked alongside her steed. The ground under her feet did not echo with her steps as it usually did. The air felt sharper in a way that she was unable to put words to. At first, she welcomed the change, but after she set up her cart and had waited for her fellow vendors to join her, the realization crept up inside her. 

“They’re not coming.” The thought seemed to come from somewhere else. It wasn’t of her own thought, but it came to her all the same from a place deep in her. A dark place.

“Flowers for Sale!” Doing her best to bury these thoughts, she turned to the words of her father that so often echoed through her head. The flowers were already beginning to wilt.

“You won’t sell a single one”

“Flowers! Flowers. Ma’am? Sir? Flowers!” She wasn’t quite alone on Main Street. The Cobbler had sent his youngest shiner to work the streets and a few of the grocers had stands erected in their stead. The few of them that braced the cold -- whether forced or upon their own volition -- glanced between one another, daring each other to be the first to give up and return to their home. To return a failure.

“Flowers for sale. Flowers for s-”

“No one wants those stupid flowers”

Her voice caught in her throat. “Fl… Flowers. Flowers for… Flowers for sale.” She held her wilted bouquet in both hands and struggled to get out the words. She held it out towards the empty street in front of her.

The Flowerseller, herself, resembled the flowers she peddled. Without rigidity. Without color. WIthout any purpose other than to exist motionless until admired upon by another.

“Flowers for-”

“You’re wasting your time…”

“- sale… Flowers for… for sale.”

“Your time and my money. OUR money!”

The frost got worse as the day went on. Hours passed and the temperature dropped beyond anything the radio predicted. The air turned to wind and frost into snow. The Cobbler’s apprentice had long left. The Grocer’s vegetables thrown into a basket and taken away to safety. But the flowers remained. The flowers embraced the cold, they welcomed the frost, they were protected by the Flowerseller. With outstretched hand she beckoned the empty street towards her, welcoming it into her shop. She extended an arrangement -- the carnations turned brown, the multi-colored roses shriveled, the orchids wilted -- to no one. 

“I told you…”

“I know.”

“I told you that you wouldn’t sell anything.”

The bouquet was first to hit the ground. Closely followed by her knees and the palms of her hands. The cold had seeped into her form and softened the impact. The voice was speaking truth -- as it always did. The Flowerseller, surrounded by the fallen petals and muddied coloring of the once vibrant flowers, let the snow gather on the brim of her hat. She watched as the street lines were covered over. The fresh white blanket that fell over Main Street seemed to cover it all. The dropped petals were quickly hidden under the fresh snow. Her cap grew heavy as the snow piled on top of its wicker brim. 

Her steed was strong enough to carry the weight of the cart as the Flowerseller walked back but the The Flowerseller never could pick up the fallen bouquet.