Flowers in Newspapers

A middle aged man who discovers something about life from Snowdrops and Roses.

                Hope for the world had long since faded by the end of my late thirties. Each day I would walk to work and find the item that only further inspired my loathing " the newspaper.

                In the early hours while seated at my office, I would flip through the headlines. The paper was full to the brim with devastating news; a new murder, maybe a few robberies. Even children as young as twelve were committing crimes in this desensitized world. I never allowed such a thing into my home. Bitter and cold, many people saw my view as an insult to their own personal beliefs. Each time someone pointed out my harshness, I would show them a newspaper.

                I had taken the road to my office on foot that day. Clear and warm, the day was opening its arms to embrace everyone. As I passed smoking teenagers and cement buildings that covered nature, a single woman was definable from the rest.

                She was proffering white roses to anyone who would like them. The odd thing was that they were for free. Approaching her, I could easily determine she was well off in life, someone who didn’t need to waste their time doing such frivolity.

                “Would you like a rose? No charge.”

                I looked at her modest clothes and young face. “No charge?” I took one, admiring the silky petals. My office certainly needed cheering up lately.

                “No sir.”

I asked her why, but she walked off to another person before she could hear. The entire day was spent, working, listening to tales of tragedy, and only occasionally remembering the rose that sat in a crude vase.

Walking to work the next morning, the woman was there again. This time she was offering snowdrops for free. I accepted one, and was about to ask again why they were free. Similar to before, she left too quickly to even hear the first words out of my mouth. Miffed, I went to work and read the newspaper, the content all too predictable.

This continued for days, each time receiving either roses or snowdrops. I had eventually given up asking why they were without price, although I still had immense curiosity. Finally, a week later, I asked her before I took a flower. “Why are they free? Isn’t it expensive?”

“To give you a day.”

That was her only reply. So plain and simple, yet I could not decipher the message. I mulled it over, repeating the words in my mind. In my office I looked at the newspaper after the encouraging of a couple of my colleagues. A depressing headline, but inside it I saw a picture of the young woman with flowers; a story of hatred and abuse. A story that crushed me even further till I realized that this morning she had been handing out the flowers as usual. For free.

That day, for the first time, I brought a newspaper home.

Author's Note

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