23 September 2050
"Just the two bouquets of flowers again, Mr Daniels?" The young and pink-haired lady said while standing behind the desk, her back hunched over in pain.
The colour of her hair didn't distract anyone from the rest of her broad, attractive body which housed more tattoos than visible skin. Her voice was sweet – probably why so many people tried their luck with her, only to realise that she was 'just at work', as she liked to put it.
Mr Daniels, a short, wide and balding old man, clearly no younger than 80 years old, stood in front of her, holding two bouquets of flowers that hid his face from her beauty. "You're well and truly right again, missy!" He bellowed with an insurmountable joy in his tone.
The lady behind the counter failed to match his energy. She sneered at his joy, somewhat leaning back with a dismayed look on her face. She opted not to respond to him, grabbing the card reader with a hasty intent.
"That'll be—"
Somewhere, despite his vision being completely blocked, Mr Daniels placed his card above the card reader, blatantly interrupting the lady in the process. "There's something wrong, isn't there? I can tell by your glum and disgruntled face. Whatever happened to that beautiful and joyful face of yours?"
The lady looked back at him, squinting in an attempt to find the gap between the two bouquets which exposed her face to Mr Daniels. She couldn't find it.
Before she could think of a response, Mr Daniels continued, maintaining his cheerful manner.
"I'm not some strange man who buys two whole bouquets of flowers for his late wife. You see, one of these is for my son to give to her – so we can both pay our respects together. That boy is so caught up with work he always forgets to buy her some flowers before we go to visit her grave. Sometimes I feel like I was wrong to put all of that pressure on him to find such a challenging job."
Despite the wall of flowers, the lady could tell Mr Daniels' smile prolonged. So did her opposing expression. Now she couldn't even bear to look up at him – the flowers even – so she averted her gaze to the floor in a retreat.
The card was accepted, the reader beeped, and she handed the receipt to Mr Daniels, swiftly finding his hand despite avoiding looking up once more.
"Thank you very much, young lady. I'll be back to see you soon. Goodbye now!"
Mr Daniels paced himself, slowly ambling toward the door before realising that his hands were full with the flowers he had just purchased. The lady, having brought her eyes away from the ground, realised, and quickly offered him her aid. Mr Daniels kindly accepted, thanking the lady and reignited their conversation.
"You know, it's actually my birthday today as well? That hardworking son of mine promised he'd take me out for a nice dinner after we visit his mother. How sweet of him, right?" A bright, wide, innocent grin peered from the side of one of the bouquets, finally letting the lady catch a glimpse of Mr Daniels' beaming face. His face looked clean and well-kept, but the wrinkles on his face were impossible to avoid.
"Yes, that's very nice of him. Why don't you tell him I said hello?" The lady responded, stammering on her words a little.
"Oh, I absolutely will. I'm sure he'll want me to send his regards back to you like usual." Mr Daniels then nodded toward the lady, turned his back, and went on his way, slowly walking toward the graveyard where his late wife lay to rest.
Before he turned the corner, however, the lady who sold him the flowers waved goodbye, offering her birthday wishes, telling him that she hopes he gets better soon. Mr Daniels chuckled once more, informing her that he was completely fine. His legs worked perfectly – that is, for someone his age – his doctor had told him he was free of any disease, and to top it all off, he was being treated to a nice dinner tonight.
According to Mr Daniels, life couldn't quite get much better.
…
It was getting late. Mr Daniels took much longer to get to the grave than he had anticipated, but that didn't matter to him. So long as he was able to give his late wife her flowers, he proclaimed he was a satisfied man.
He didn't like the winter so much. It forced him to wrap up in layers upon layers of thick clothing – two pairs of gloves, a scarf concealing everything but his weary eyes, and a charming, old-fashioned hat tilted to one side. The crunch of gravel under his boots echoed softly as he reached the gates of the graveyard.
He adjusted the flowers, his hat and cleared his throat, exhaled deeply, and stepped through the iron gates which warmly welcomed him back.
Once he had finally reached the grave, the sky had already surrendered to the dark, as the last traces of daylight had been buried beneath the weight of the cold, winter evening. The pavements were frosty, and caught the pale glow of the lampposts that hummed faintly above.
Mr Daniels shuffled along, soon reaching the bench he and his son always sat on when they went to see his late wife.
Certainly not to his surprise, his son was already there. He sat on the bench, his back straight and hands resting on his knees, both feet flat against the floor and blankly staring forward at a large gravestone that lay in front of him.
He didn't turn his head despite Mr Daniels offering his greetings and placing the bouquet of flowers in his lap.
"I bought these for you so you could give them to your mother. As I predicted, you forgot to buy some again," Mr Daniels softly remarked as he harshly found his way to sit on the bench.
Mr Daniels found his position of comfort on the bench. Though no one walked past as they sat next to each other, one could tell they were father and son simply from the way they were sitting. Mr Daniels positioned himself accordingly, practically acting as a mirror to his son.
They both sat in silence, vacantly gazing at whatever momentarily caught their eyes in front of them. This continued for a while, both of them controlling their breathing to a low, almost inaudible level. Yet Mr Daniels' breathing suddenly changed after his late wife's gravestone caught his attention – as it always did, but it had the exact same impact on him as it did the very first time.
It read:
'Here lies Irene Daniels, a beloved mother, wife, friend and hero to the local community. 08/09/1970 - 02/09/2050'
With one tug at his scarf, Mr Daniels cut the silence and turned his head toward his son who remained still.
"I remember the first time we met like it was yesterday. What a stupid story it is, but at least its silliness is what makes it memorable and always a joy to tell. You wouldn't mind me telling it again, would you?"
His son took a deep breath, but apart from that, didn't move at all.
"I'll take that as a yes, then." And with a few, loud clearings of his throat, Mr Daniels explained one of his fondest memories about his late wife.
"I was so distracted by what I was watching on my phone that I didn't realise that she was also making her way down the stairs from the top floor of the bus. I crashed into her while she was lugging her three – no two – bags of shopping down the stairs. As you probably guessed, it didn't end so well. She fell all the way to the bottom, cushioning my fall but slamming her mouth into the wall. She was still strong enough to pick up her shopping and deny the support of anyone else on the bus – though, it didn't seem like anyone, including the bus driver, really cared."
Mr Daniels quickly peered back over at his son before continuing. His son looked just as glum and unresponsive as before.
"I followed her off of the bus and apologised so many times. She ignored me for about three minutes until she finally gave in to the fact that she was hurt and needed some help. I kind of wished it was because she thought I was attractive, but she used to tell me she only thought that after we started dating." Mr Daniels chuckled to himself, and then coughed.
"Anyway, I told her that her lip was bleeding quite badly, and that perhaps she needed to go to the hospital. But she rejected my suggestion, saying that they wouldn't be able to do anything about it. I didn't agree, of course, but after having caught a glimpse of her beautiful face, I wasn't going to tell her no. So I carried her shopping back to her house and…well, the rest is history. Good story, ain't it?"
Mr Daniels gleefully crossed his arms, his facial expression suddenly changing from one of happiness to one of sorrow. His eyes stiffened and he looked as though his own story had made him uncomfortable.
A little sniff from his nose was all it took for Mr Daniels to begin yet another story.
"And I'll never forget about the time I proposed to her. Who would've thought that something could go so wrong despite it being so heavily planned? Well, the plan was as simple as one could think…but I just think, because I was so scared that she'd say no for some reason, I messed it all up." He took a deep breath, clenching his thighs with what strength he had left in his forearms.
"Oh, man. I couldn't get a single word out…yet she still said yes. What a lucky man I—"
Mr Daniels' son, at last, spoke, abruptly stopping his father from finishing his story.
"I've heard all of these stories before. You don't have to tell them again."
Mr Daniels looked over at his son, shocked and confused, almost as though he had been attacked. He wanted to say something, but his emotions had finally caught up to him at that moment, forcing him to submit to his son's words which didn't stop there.
"Don't you think it's better if you stopped thinking about those things? If you did, maybe it'll help you get over what happened to mum. Wouldn't you agree?"
Before the growing wind could take his hat, Mr Daniels grabbed it intensely. In fact, he pressed down hard enough for its edge to cover his eyes. Like his son had done to him the past few minutes, he didn't muster a response. Instead, he got up from the bench, taking the flowers and placing them on his late wife's grave.
And without a word, he began walking away from the grave and his son. But before he had even taken three steps, he didn't forget the promise his son had made him.
"Hurry and place the flowers on your mother's grave. I'm excited to go and have that meal you promised me. Perhaps it'll cheer us up a little," he said as he rubbed his hands together.
"What are you talking about, father?" His son gently replied.
Mr Daniels' eyes began to blur, small tears blocking his vision.
"I have to stay here and look after my mother. If I don't, then she will be alone for too long."
Mr Daniels briskly rubbed his eyes, ridding them of the tears and unblurring his sight.
His son had gone, and the flowers he had given him rested on the bench he had just left. Mr Daniels approached the flowers and muttered to himself. "Ah, I see. How do I keep forgetting?"
He picked up the flowers, and placed them onto the floor, near the grave of his late wife. However, this bouquet of flowers was not for his wife. They were for someone else; someone else whose grave lay next to his late wife's.
The gravestone read:
'Here lies Benjamin Daniels, a beloved son, friend and tireless worker who never let anyone down. 25/11/2001 - 14/02/2028'
END