A flower, sitting on my doorstep.
Why would someone leave a flower on my doorstep? Especially in January?
It was an iris, I realized, as I picked up the delicate plant. I wondered how long it had been out there.
Shivering against the cold, I pulled out my keys and unlocked my door, pushing into the warmth of the indoors. I carried the flower inside as well.
I carefully set the flower down on a table just inside the door, then shrugged off my coat and hung it in the closet. I turned and picked the flower back up, my mind turning over the possible meanings.
Suddenly, I was pulled back into an old memory. One of my first dates, a young lady of about 17, her long, unbound red hair floating in stark contrast to the blue skies and field of blue irises. We’d planned a picnic in the field of flowers that day, and it was about as perfect as it could be.
We threw down a blanket among the irises, eating sandwiches and fruit, laughing and talking. We were pretty carefree. It was the definition of a perfect day. And man, was she pretty.
The doorbell rang.
As I turned toward the door, I saw the same beautiful face–a few years older, but still familiar. I floated down to open the door, my legs moving seemingly of their own accord.
“I don’t suppose you remember me,” she started, smiling a bit coyly.
I smiled back, and she laughed, the sound again taking me back to the old memory. “The picnic in the field, how could I forget?” I replied, gesturing her in. “What brings you here?”
“A memory of an old friend, someone I’d like to get to know again,” she said, smiling again.
I nodded in response. I love that smile.
