I look out my front window and see a van from a florist shop pull up across the street. A man gets out carrying a big display of flowers covered in plastic wrap. Suddenly my ordinary day begins to sparkle.
Who could be sending me flowers? It’s not my birthday or Valentine’s Day. So maybe it’s a surprise. Maybe it’s a secret admirer. I laugh out loud at this idea, unable to imagine such an admirer, secret or otherwise.
But for a moment my heart has forgotten that I’m an old woman, an old married woman. Somewhere inside myself is a young woman for whom the world is full of possibilities. Full of anticipation and hope. Confident her life will contain wonderful surprises.
Then I watch the man with the flowers walk to the house next door. Oh, it’s not for me. Not for me, this lovely bouquet. I turn away from the window, wondering what the occasion is for my neighbor, trying to be happy for her.
I am sorry the flowers didn’t come to my door, but not sorry to be revisited by the young woman who lives inside of me. I’m glad she’s still there, still full of hope.