Every Thursday at exactly 3 p.m., he arrived like clockwork. Riding the same motorized scooter, wearing the same faded yellow cap, and always with a fresh bouquet of red roses nestled in the basket. He’d roll past the deli, straight to the floral department, and choose the fullest blooms—pausing just long enough to breathe in their scent like it still meant everything.
One day, my coworker asked him casually, “Special occasion today?”
With a gentle smile, he replied, “Nope. Just Thursday.”
That answer lingered in my mind.
The next week, curiosity got the better of me. I watched him check out and quietly followed him as he wheeled his groceries out to a weathered beige sedan. He moved with slow precision, wiped the dashboard, and then opened the passenger door.
That’s when I saw her.
Sitting upright in the front seat was a woman with silvery hair tied in a ribbon, her expression soft, eyes distant. He handed her the roses without a word.
She looked at them and asked, “Are these from the man who used to bring me flowers?”
His voice was steady. “Yes, sweetheart. Every Thursday.”
He kissed her forehead, gently buckled her seatbelt, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
That moment stayed with me. The idea of loving someone who no longer remembers your shared history was quietly devastating—and deeply beautiful.
A Love That Didn’t Fade, Even When Memory Did
The following week, he returned. Same routine—except this time, he bought two bouquets. One smaller than the other. I watched as he slipped a folded note into the smaller one. Just before he tucked it away, I caught a glimpse of the words:
“In case she…”
I didn’t see him again until the next Thursday. He picked up his usual roses—and added a bunch of white daisies. At checkout, he scribbled something on a card and tucked it gently between the stems.
I had to ask.
“Sir, if you don’t mind… what do the notes say?”
He paused, then replied with warmth in his voice, “Just a little reminder.”
“A reminder of what?” I asked.
He smiled. “Of who she is to me. And who she’s always been.”
He wasn’t trying to bring back the past. He was loving her in the present, in the only way she could receive it.
More Than Flowers—A Ritual of Love
Each week, I watched him come and go. Sometimes he’d switch the flowers—one time, sunflowers caught his eye.
“She always loved sunflowers,” he told the cashier. “Said they reminded her of her garden.”
“You’re a good man,” she said.
He smiled softly. “No. Just a grateful one.”
Then one Thursday, I noticed something different. His car remained in the parking lot much longer than usual. I walked over and found him sitting still, hands on the wheel, his head bowed.
“Is everything okay?” I asked gently.
He looked up with tearful eyes. “She remembered today. Just for a moment. She looked at me and said, ‘Silas, remember the sunflowers?’ And then… it was gone. But that moment? It meant everything.”
One Last Thursday—And a Legacy That Lives On
A few weeks later, he returned—but this time, it was a Tuesday. Instead of roses, he picked up a small lavender plant.
“She passed this morning,” he told me softly. “Peacefully.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“She loved the scent of lavender. I’m putting it by the kitchen window… where she used to sit.”
Then he added, “The notes? They weren’t just for her. They were for me, too. She was a poet. Her words once guided me. Now I write to remember her.”
Silas taught me something no book ever could: Love doesn’t live in memory. It lives in action.
Real love is showing up. Again and again. Even when the other person can’t show up with you. It’s the bouquet, the folded note, the quiet kiss on the forehead. Not for what was—but for what still is.