I saw him every Saturday morning.
Same routine. Same corner flower stand. Same bouquet—white daisies and one red rose in the middle.
He didn’t look like someone buying flowers for a celebration. There was no joy in his hands. Just quiet habit. Steady movement. Like this was a promise he refused to break.
He’d walk two blocks down and into the cemetery gates. Stay for exactly 30 minutes. Then leave with empty hands.
No one ever asked.
No one ever followed.
Until one rainy morning, I offered him an umbrella. He declined, smiled softly, and said:
“She hated umbrellas. Always said if the rain wants to kiss you, let it.”
That day, I walked with him through the cemetery.
He moved slowly, like every step was memorized.
“She’s been gone 14 years,” he said. “But we were married for 45.”
He knelt at the same headstone. A small one. White marble with hand-painted letters that read:
“Claire – She laughed in storms and loved louder than thunder.”
He placed the bouquet gently at its base.
“I bring daisies because they were her favorite. And the red rose?” He paused. “That’s for the fight we never got to finish.”
He smiled again, eyes glassy.
“We argued that morning. Something stupid. She left for work and never came home. I didn’t get to say sorry.”
My chest tightened.
“But every Saturday,” he said, “I come back and try. Just in case she’s listening.”
We stood in silence as the rain started to fall.
He didn’t flinch. He let it run down his face like a baptism.
“She hated umbrellas,” he repeated. “Always said love should be felt, not shielded.”
I never forgot that.
Now, every time it rains, I let it fall. And I think of a man with flowers. And the kind of love that doesn’t vanish with the body.
💬 Final Thought:
Some people bring flowers to graves.
Others bring promises, guilt, and memories wrapped in petals.
But the rarest ones?
Bring their love. And never stop.
