Each Saturday he hobbles into the shop in tiny, shuffling and very rapid munchkin steps, stabilized by his cane but still terrifying me that he will fall forward due to his own momentum. He wears a glossy red baseball jacket and a visor cap, khakis and corduroy house slippers, and this day he carries a brilliant red flower in his free hand. He crosses the length of the restaurant all the way to the shop, hunched forward like an involuntarily bent over hundred year old downhill racer, concentrating hard on each movement and focused on his destination. His face is patchy with age, discolored in places with liver spots and scars, and his hands tremble but his eyes are bright and his smile shows every tooth in place. Like a ruined old knight bearing a gift for a lady, he approaches Lindsey and almost shyly offers her the flower. She accepts it gracefully and favors him with a dimpled smile and for a moment there is a hint of the young man he must have been. She pours him a glass of sauvignon blanc and they fall easily into conversation about his garden and love of flowers while she gently puts the flower into a wine glass and fills it halfway with water. It's a camellia, he tells her proudly and his eyes sparkle.
He doesn't stay long - I get the feeling that a driver is waiting outside - but before he leaves he engages each of us in conversation, telling me that he knew my husband's family well and mentioning other names I used to know. His body is breaking down but his mind is sharp and as he leaves several people waylay him to say hello. He stops and speaks to every one of them, calling them by name and asking after their families, then raises one hand in a farewell wave and shuffles through the front doors. I realize that I'm halfway expecting applause.
The red camellia may not last but it was no small gift.
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