OverByTheFlowersJosephine

The Saturday market is busy when I arrive, with long lines cascading from every stall and shop even though it’s only half-past eight. Someone’s shouting that their apples are only six dollars a kilogram while their opposition claims theirs is five. The haggling has already begun, it seems. Weaving through the multitudes of people, I slip past the crowds and head to one of the many flower shops, ‘The Right Season’. This place is my favourite over ‘Busy Bee’ and ‘Flowery Language’, though the local review says both are equally good. But maybe I’m biased because this store has Ines’ favourite flower. The door opens with its friendly bell chime; a young woman with pastel pink-streaked brown hair smiles.

“Good morning, Campbell. The usual?”

“Morning, Heidi. Yes, if you don’t mind,”

“Not at all,” Heidi walks in front of the counter, rushing over to the tulips sections, selecting a vibrant bouquet of orange, yellow, pink and white tulips “Will this do?”

“Splendidly,” I nod, reaching for my phone to pay “Your Ines is one lucky woman, Campbell, if you buy her flowers every Saturday,” Heidi remarks as the machine beeps, confirming the payment

“I do my best ” I thank the owner of ‘The Right Season’ and head out with the tulips carefully wrapped in a plastic and brown paper hug

“See you next Saturday!”

The streets have gotten busier as it nears nine o’clock, families gracing the market with their amused beams and chubby fingers pointing at everything within a one- hundredmetre distance. The notion reminds me of my family, how we used to parade the market streets, my sister and I, tempted to touch everything and anything within our reach. Mother had always laughed at our antics, as Father told us not to put our “grubby kid hands” all over the place. He enjoyed watching us, though. They both did.

“Excuse me, may I offer you a drawing this fine morning?” Someone calls out to me. Their eyes are full of desperation so early on a Saturday. I have time, so I sit on the rickety wooden stool and let the woman take my portrait.

“What’s your style of choice?” I ask curiously.

“Realism, usually. But as this is a quick sketch, think of it as more of a doodle,”

“Sounds nice,” I muse It isn’t long before the artist smiles and hands me the nowdetailed paper “Thank you for your time ” I pass the woman a twenty-dollar note before straightening my coat and walking out “You can keep the change ”

“Come again soon!”

Live music has started to swell across the market, a man singing a song from the King of Rock and Roll himself, the gentleness of his tone as he sings of falling in love. I toss in a coin, and he smiles with such tenderness I can’t help but smile back Further down, a trio of teenagers, a pianist, a guitarist and a vocalist, are pouring their hearts out with a popular boy group’s song about grief The sound is rawer than the man’s vocals; the first heartbreak has only just plagued the girls, unlike the man who has been there before and sings entirely of adoration. I toss in two coins this time, getting placid nods and smiles as they sing the song angelically I wonder if Ines would like to hear them play

“Today was our yesterday, and now there's no tomorrow It hurts, but if we dragged it out more, it would've become a scar”.

I leave the market in one piece, the flowers poking their heads out from the side of my bag Ines is waiting The traffic isn’t as bad as I thought as I drive for another five minutes, my hands gripping the wheels’ leather. The last turn is abrupt, as I nearly miss the entrance. There’s an abundance of parking which is reassuring. I hurry out of my car, the bouquet tightly in my grip. I sprint down the rows of houses, racing towards Number 19’s door The front gate is already open, as Ines’ name, engraved at the front of her dwelling, shines from the sun’s rays.

“Hi, Ines,” I greet as I kneel at the solid stone before me. I place the tulips on the side of the grave. “I miss you, my love. But I got you your favourite flowers; they had all the right colours And I know I say this every time, but I sound crazy, talking to a gravestone But I hope you can hear me wherever you are,” I forget about the dirt and sit cross-legged on the ground.

“Your mother is doing well. She misses you, as your father and brother do, but they’re doing alright. If you’re worrying about them, there’s no need to. I think, though, and maybe it’s selfish to say this, but I miss you more You’d have more flowers, but your brother said he was too busy this weekend

Don’t worry. I’ll keep buying them for you, anyway. Heidi, that’s the florist, she thinks it’s endearing I buy you flowers every week. I'm doing okay, I think. It's strange I always expect to see you in the morning when I wake up, but you're never there Maybe, if there's such an advancement in technology, we'll see each other again " A notification goes off as my phone buzzes I ignore it and press the palms of my hands to my eyes.

“I love you, Ines.”