On the grey street there is a flower shop.
Tall buildings line the street. Granite face after granite face marches neatly down, until there, in unabashed simplicity, stands a white building front, freshly painted, with flowers set out before it. I pass it on every walk to the local grocery, a memory of fair fields planted right in the middle of a bustling street. I always pause in front of it. The groceries are heavy in my stroller.
Sometimes I’ll buy flowers, £1 for a bundle nearing the end of their bloom, and I’ll take them home with me to my granite flat and scatter them in bottles throughout the rooms.
Thank God that flowers can be picked.