Someone Else's Flowers Freddie Albrighton 2022

No one knew him well. And no one knew exactly who he was or where he came from. He always came to the very old cemetery on the outskirts of town on weekends. Mostly on Sundays. His dark suit looked worn and frayed. But one could tell he tried to appear well-groomed. His gaze was empty and his watery green eyes were turned inward. His white hair framed his gaunt face like a web. And every step seemed like the last. Purposefully, he walked to where no one wanted to be. He went to the compost heap of the cemetery. There, where the cemetery of all flowers was. Right there were the flowers that no one wanted anymore. Everything that wilted, that was no longer fresh, that was no longer presentable and full of beauty was disposed of there. The sight of the compost heap was as bizarre as it was beautiful…!

On the rotting heap lay everything. The wreaths of the recently deceased and the bouquets of the married. The church was right next door. Here, death lay directly next to love. One had to be very centered when standing in front of this compost heap. All the emotions that were laid down there were too powerful and loud. It hurt. No matter in which direction. And that is exactly where the old man went. So incredibly strong and self-assured!

The chlorophyll of the wilted plants and of death enveloped the old man almost like a green aura. Slightly narcotic like wilted hyacinths. He almost purposefully chose his flowers from the heaps. He often took even the earthy-dirty radish from the vegetable patch of the church next door. The bitter-spicy chrysanthemums. The leathery-powdery violets. Some moss from weathered gravestones. The fleshy-tender stocks. His hands were full of dirt. Like patchouli and full of grime. Almost randomly yet instinctively, he reached for them. He formed a bouquet from them. Morbid to look at yet so incredibly pretty and beautiful. He gave death itself a beautiful costume. Transience seemed to come alive!

Then he dreamily sat down on one of the old and cold granite benches. His gaze was empty as always. But sometimes it brightened. Then he spoke to the bouquet he had tied with a weathered leather band. He held the bouquet like a baby in his arms. Or like the head of a loved one to whom he had something to tell. He often stroked the bouquet too. So tenderly, so gently, so peacefully, so sensitively and full of love. Sometimes his lips moved as he whispered to the bouquet. But one never understood a word. In those moments, he seemed very, very happy…!

He sat there for hours before he stood up and, with the wilted bouquet in his hands, walked to the oldest part of the cemetery, which was overgrown and no longer maintained. There was a spot deep inside that was surrounded by blooming weeds. From a distance, it almost looked like a small compost heap. But it was not! In the middle was a dainty little and weathered gravestone. It was surrounded by wilted bouquets. One could hardly count them anymore. There were countless. There, the old man laid down the bouquet. This place was so quiet that one could not even hear the birds chirping. But what one could hear was his weeping. Never long,… just very briefly…!

When one approached the gravestone and pushed aside a few of the bouquets, one could still see what was written on it……

HERE RESTS ANNI…
YOU WERE THE GARDENER OF MY HEART.
IN ETERNAL LOVE….
WILLI

The End

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iytUp61zsUo