Sunday Flowers

By: Audrey Yeung

I left the florist with a bouquet cradled in my arm.

“Lilies again?” he had asked kindly.

“Of course,” I replied. Of course, because they were her favourite. It was one of the first things I learned about her, after her favourite colour (green) and whether or not she had any siblings (yes, one older brother).

I brought flowers for her every week ever since she moved away a couple of years ago, and we would meet each other at the same spot, at the same time, just for the day, before I returned home. I boarded the train, sitting at my usual spot, right beside the window. It never bothered me that I was always the one who visited her, because that wasn’t the point. As long as I got to see her, it didn’t matter who was making the journey. Besides, I loved the view from the train window. It was like someone had painted it, with thick brush strokes for the sky and hills, and delicate lines for the houses in the distance and the autumn trees. I always told myself that I ought to draw it someday, but I had yet to do so. The journey would take exactly sixty-four minutes. I knew because I had counted on my fourth trip to visit her. So, I pulled out my book and started reading, occasionally glancing up at the picturesque view.

The book I was reading was Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, which was her favourite book. Actually, she gave it to me on our third date after I told her I had never read it before. I still remembered the look on her face, eyes wide and jaw dropped.

“You’re kidding,” she had said. I laughed and assured her that I was not. She shook her head and disappeared into her room. She came back and thrust a book into my hands.

“It’s yours now,”

“I couldn’t possibly,” I said. She raised an eyebrow in warning: Whether I liked it or not, the book was mine now. I smiled softly. “Thank you,”

That night, I stayed at her place for the first time, and over glasses of red wine, she read the book to me. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough. You could tell how much she loved the book from the way she read it.

That night, Little Women became my favourite book too.

The train pulled into the station, and I headed straight in the direction that I needed to go to. To anyone else who didn’t live in this area, they would have been lost right from the moment they stepped off the train, but this had become a routine for me. Every Sunday, at the same time. After a few minutes of walking, I reached my destination. I weaved through the crowd that was always there and stopped when I saw her. It had only been a week, of course, but it had felt like forever. You would understand too if you’ve ever been in love.

I sat down next to her on the grass, smiling lightly.

“I missed you,” I whispered. I placed the lilies next to her tombstone, next to the lilies that I put there last week, and the week before that. I traced her name which was carved into the stone slowly with my finger.

“I brought something,” I pulled out Little Women. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve read this. It’s shocking, even by your standards,”

And I started reading to her, hoping she could hear it and tell how much I loved the book just from the way I read it.