Strange memories.

Many years ago, I worked as a florist.
I designed many arrangements and as a bonus, I got to deliver them as well.

On one occasion, I was to deliver a 'Get Well' bouquet.
The house I pulled up in front of was old and odd and ramshackle. The yard had grown wild and was swallowing the house.

I climbed the rickety stairs, not sure what I was going to find, but the golden eyed cats that followed felt reassuring to me.

The door opened to an equally untamed looking old man. He had the look more of absent-minded untidy bachelor than anything else.
Looking surprised to see me, he graciously took the bouquet, explaining sotto voce that the flowers must be for his wife, Jenny, who was lying in the other room.

I commented on the beautiful cats that had gathered around his feet. By this time 4 of the sleek black beasts had emerged from the shadows and were lolling about.

"Ah!" He sounded excited. "Do you know what kind of cats they are?"
I shook my head.
"These are the beautiful Bombay cats, breed for their golden eyes. My wife loves them, and they're very gentle. Do you like cats? Do you have a minute?"

I said yes to both questions.

He vanished back into the dark house and re-emerged a moment later with a beautiful book about cats, to which he had already turned to the pages on the Bombays.

I don't remember much about the actual words he spoke, or the information he imparted. But I remember clearly the excitement and enjoyment he obviously was experiencing at sharing his love and knowledge with someone.

Eventually I had to leave. Work has a way of interfering in real life.

A month later the flower shop received an order for an 'In Sympathy' bouquet. I piled it into the van, checked the address and off I went.

It wasn't till I was almost in front of that same house that I realized what had happened.

Jenny must have died from her illness.
I felt so sad and sick.

The cats didn't come out from their shadows and no one answered the door.

I had to leave the bouquet on the front step.

I'll always wonder about that man.
How he coped.
If he coped.

I'll never forget how happy he was to share something of himself that day, though his wife must have surely been very ill at that point.

I wished that he had been home so I could have expressed my sorrow, patted the cats, said something. Thanked him.

And he's stayed in my memory all these years. Him, his 'beautiful Bombay cats' and his wife Jenny, to whom I delivered flowers to twice, but who I never, ever saw.





A Vase of Flowers
Paul Gaugin
1896