The Right Flowers

Embarking on my quest for a florist at the unconventional hour of 5:00 am, I ventured into the tranquil morning, well aware that most individuals would scarcely entertain the thought of awakening at such an early time, let alone venturing out to purchase flowers.

Ordinarily, flower shops would be closed at this hour. Yet, in my town, there's a well-known and eccentric florist who runs a 24/7 flower shop on a charming wagon, proudly displaying the slogan, "We're never closed for romance." But before delving into my early morning quest, I must first share the story of a remarkable woman I've come to know. Then, you'll understand that you might have done the same had you been in my position, or perhaps even risen earlier than I did.

***

She was the one who insisted we should get acquainted. Though nearing the impressive age of 97, a coveted milestone in my culture and I believe in every culture, she appeared far younger than her years. On the eve of my forty-fifth birthday, I found the idea of meeting someone more than twice my age intriguing.

She had been an educator for half a century, teaching in various schools, high schools, kindergartens, and other educational institutions. Her storied career began in the late 1950s, during which she taught a man who would eventually become a Chief of Staff. In the 1970s, she guided several soon-to-be stars of the Children's Channel, and by the 1990s, she had mentored a renowned actress who later found success in Hollywood.

"When we sit down for a conversation, there are many years to traverse. Sometimes it's twenty, sometimes thirty, or even half a century," she said, likely apologetic.

I enjoyed the ice cream I had ordered for her from a man who happened to park his ice cream truck at a crosswalk in front of a school where she once taught. Rumor had it that he was the half-brother of the eccentric, always-open florist. She mentioned that the ice cream was too cold for her gums, something she never thought she would say.

"It's alright, I don't mind continuing with ice creams that others have started," I assured her.

She gazed with her large, blue eyes at a building behind us, reminiscing, "You know, over 75 years ago, even before Montana Ice Cream was here, we used to gather here to chat, laugh, and let loose. Yankel without the hand, Ephraim, and Israela were there. I think she was the first to bear that name."

I smiled at her, pondering whether it was appropriate to tell her, in that moment, that she was the oldest woman I had ever dated. I wondered if it would help me reach my desired outcome. She noticed my internal struggle, and with the wisdom of someone who had experienced life multiple times over, she gently placed her hand on my shoulder.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm not used to young ones like you either. But what does it matter? We're here now, together, enjoying ice cream, and all the people in the world are simply that—people. Nothing that directly impacts us. They can think what they want anyway."

I chuckled, not because anything was amusing, but because I felt a connection. I shared with her, "One of my goals for the coming year is to let all the people in the world and their opinions disappear from my thoughts. To focus on what's inside me and the people close to me."

"Nice goal," she remarked.

I observed the chocolate smudge adorning the edge of her lip, wondering if she was aware of it and left it there deliberately or if it was simply an innocent oversight, like with young children.

Suddenly, she dozed off.

Unsure of what to do in such situations, I hesitated before gently nudging her frail hand, contemplating whether it was better to let her sleep until morning and continue our date afterward.

She awoke, momentarily disoriented before the sight of me holding the empty ice cream cone and smiling brought her back to the present.

"So, what did you say your last name was?" she inquired.

"Vanillis," I replied. "It's a made-up name. My great-great-grandfather invented it in Europe. He wanted something that sounded neither too Jewish nor too Christian, to avoid trouble from either side."

"Europe," she sighed, a spark igniting within her. "You know what saddens me? I'm starting to forget all the languages I once knew. I could flirt with men in seven languages: Hungarian, German, French, Flemish, and... what else was there? Flemish, Hungarian... Did I mention French?"

I nodded, pleased to discover that the woman before me was no ordinary person but rather someone who pursued her desires confidently.

"Did you have any opening lines? Phrases you used to approach those you were interested in?" I asked.

"Honesty has always been the key to successful relationships, whether with others or myself, of course. I would always express what I felt in the moment. Let it out. It works in every generation."

"Speaking the truth is the easiest, isn't it?" I agreed, placing my palm in hers. "You never have to remember anything."

"Right," she agreed, fixing her gaze on me. Taking as deep a breath as she could muster, she declared, "You're a good young man."

I attempted to correct her, mentioning that I wasn't so young anymore and would soon turn forty-five, but she persisted in calling me a young man even when we returned to her nursing home lobby three hours later.

"Good young man, maybe you could play something for me on the piano? I think I caught a chill outside, and listening to the piano always makes me feel better right away."

"So that's the secret to longevity," I mused while confidently approaching the piano. "I never considered this angle. Everyone talks about the importance of relieving stress and feeling like part of a community, but you say that listening to the piano is the big trick ... that simple..."

For her, I played Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. It was the first time since the age of twelve that I had played the piano, and I knew my choice was ambitious, especially since I couldn't recall a single note. Yet she didn't seem perturbed by my performance. I played as if Gershwin himself was present to test me. I danced over the keys, perspired, maintained an upright posture, kept my arms and hands light, and never stopped. I was fully immersed in the music.

"That's the most romantic improvisation I've heard in a hundred years," she complimented as I rejoined her. "And I truly mean it."

Later in her room, she regaled me with tales of at least twenty men who had played for her. Some performed entire pieces, while others offered smaller, more concise renditions.

“In general, I prefer modern music,” I confessed. "Older works aren't my thing."

"How long did you study?" she inquired.

"I don't remember, but my father fell for the piano teacher, Mrs. Ebony, who came from South Africa. Ever since then, our family's inner dynamics transformed into a complex symphony."

"Well, well," she grinned. "That reminds me of three or four of my husbands."

As we entered her room, I could sense the presence of the men with whom she had shared months, years, or even decades of her life. Not all of them appeared in the framed photographs that adorned her room, but for each one on display, there were ample stories to overshadow the rest.

"This is Tom. Back in the 1940s, his name was rather uncommon in our area, and just like its Hebrew meaning, he truly stood for innocence, naivety, and purity. He tragically died in a workplace accident while working on one of the first buildings in our neighborhood. He was a laborer—strong. I've always had a fondness for strong men."

I nodded, making a mental note to reevaluate the gym membership I had recently canceled, as my interest in overall physical fitness and the human body in general had greatly waned lately.

Her tone grew somber. "After he passed away, I was lonely for eighteen years. I couldn't believe I would ever move on. We had only been together for a few months, but the promise he brought to my life was beyond anything I could have ever imagined. It felt like a breath of fresh air, like seeing the sun for the first time."

"And who is this?" I paused next to a picture of a man who reminded me of a soccer player from Maccabi Jaffa in the 1970s. "Is this who I think it is?"

She nodded, her eyes widening once again. I helped her to her bed. Despite her frailty, her words remained clear and sharp, something I couldn't help but admire.

"You have per-fect diction," I said.

"No, the doctor said I'm fine," she replied.

I covered her with the first genuine quilt I had ever encountered. In my forty-five years, I had never come across one quite like it, save for in American films.

In the morning, I awoke beneath the quilt, feeling a deep sense of happiness. For a moment, I wondered if it was alright to feel such joy. I went to the kitchen corner to make my morning coffee, then sat on her small balcony, which offered a view of life in all its stages, as well as the city's grand theater building that resembled a massive white cube, like a cultural Mecca. I couldn't help but contemplate whether my picture would one day join her collection of memories.

I hugged myself, much like my father's brother, Uncle Shalom, would do when he grew tired of thinking negative thoughts about life. He was a pessimist, but he lived to a ripe old age, contrary to expectations. I recalled how he had once told me about an elderly woman he had spent time with. Had I unknowingly stepped into his story? Was it a family tendency? I tried to remember more details from his tales.

She stirred awake.

I never imagined that women her age still used alarm clocks.

"Otherwise, I sleep until five-thirty or six in the morning. It feels like the day has already passed," she explained.

I glanced at the clock, realizing I had never woken up at such an early hour before. She joined me on the balcony, sitting down beside me.

"I once had a fling with a well-known actor in the theater," she began, as I held her hand, eager to listen to all her stories – both the ones that happened and the ones that were merely figments of her imagination. "One night, he surprised me by knocking on my door. He was that kind of person, knocking incessantly and loudly. The whole building could hear it. What could I do? Leave him outside? Of course not. And I didn't mind the noise. I was known for making noise even when everyone else was asleep."

I pointed to a well-known actress passing just below the balcony. "But who goes to the theater today?" She concluded her story. "Nowadays, even Romeo and Juliet meet only on the internet."

I stood up from the chair and asked if I could bring her flowers. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to express my feelings through a bouquet. "Where will you find flowers at this hour? It's not even five!" she questioned. "I'll find them," I assured her. "I know a guy who sells them at all hours. He was once heartbroken and has since kept his flower stall open for those needing to show their love."

As I searched the town for the guy driving the flower wagon, her parting words echoed in my mind, "Just don't bring me funeral flowers, okay, kid?" 

“Don’t worry,” I told her before closing the door. 

I was on a quest to find the perfect flowers, knowing they needed to be vibrant, with a delicate balance between subtlety and extravagance. Such floral arrangements would match her personality – she was someone who made her presence known. It was a pleasure to sit beside her and listen to her stories, reminding oneself that some of them, or at least parts, were entirely genuine – as authentic as her age and her tender touch.

I stumbled upon the eccentric florist near a religious state school. He was dozing on a bench, his open flower cart illuminated by a greenish glow, brimming with captivating bouquets. Silently seeking forgiveness, I chose three arrangements adorned with blooming white roses, passionate calla lilies, and delicate pink peonies. These were the right flowers, I thought, as I retraced my steps back to her street, her home, her balcony, and ultimately, to her.

But she was already lifeless.

My overwhelming joy was supplanted by a bitter serving of disappointment.

I settled down beside her and gently began to sing a modest tune – nothing extraordinary, an Elton John number she had fondly recalled from her third wedding. As the familiar notes floated through the air, it became a poignant, heartfelt farewell, our last harmonious connection.

Then I picked up the phone, accidentally dialing my ex's number instead of the number for those who were supposed to come and take the woman beside me, lifeless yet still grinning.

"Hello?" she said.

"Ira?" I asked.

"Didn't we agree that it's over between us?" she inquired.

The feeling of sadness began to resurface, usurping all the positive emotions that had flourished in its absence. "Yes," I said. "Of course. It's over."