The Flower Lady by Bob MacKenzie The bell tolled low: scarcely heard at first. An itinerant artist saw her once when he came painting five dollar faces of pedestrians. He saw her and was intrigued by thoughts that filled her eyes and worlds she held in her skilled hands and strong will. Sitting, her back to the wall as a defense against the electric wind sparking around her and chilling. He saw her and offered free to paint her portrait. The Flower Lady portrait was painted. There is in a business window where she walked a haunting portrait of the Flower Lady. She sits back to the wall face to the wind's short circuits city grey gazing into distance at green European fields or a warm farmhome where a young girl once lived. She sits back to the wall face to the wind a basket of flowers at her feet. The bell tolled. She was the Flower Lady she needed no more identification Than that. She rose with alley cats and young babies. she rose with the crisp morning sun and sea breeze and was sometimes in her place at Market's head as early as seven in the morning. She took brightly coloured materials in the beginning and created flowers she sold all over the city. There was a restaurant where she ate (if you can call it that) a bit of tea and a bit of toast, not much of either. She sat alone caring for her creations, her nearly flowers, pinching and shaping limp petals straightening green green leaves. Then she ate her usual late evening lunch: tea and toast. That was all. The bell tolled. It was often midnight before she returned to her room with her left over not quite flowers. If the sun hung like a halo the glow of its ring burning her eyes and dropping burning summertime to her shoulders, she walked. If the sea threw its net of fog over her, no matter: she walked. If winter wrapped cold claws around her and dug icy teeth into her, she walked. One man recalls one cold and foggy night she knocked on his door at eleven at night a good part of her bouquets unsold. She lived chiefly on tea and toast. She hoarded her small cash reserve for materials to create nearly, not quite flowers. For twenty-two years she occupied the same room had no guests or visitors who were seen. No relative came to call on the Flower Lady. The bell tolled. She was herself like a flower: a thin wildflower bright and alive like the mayflowers she sold in the spring. Sometimes she wore a fresh, crisp bandana; sometimes her grape basket was gaily decorated like a happy moment in Childhood. Sometimes it was plain. The tributes are many: She was always neat and tidy; She would not take charity; Once when her kindly landlady turned down a three dollar payment she wanted to make on her rent, she went out and bought her a gift in the same amount. Everything reported serves to enhance her memory. When her death was announced few noticed. The bell tolled low: She needed no more identification than that. published: Quoin, Volume VI, Number 2, April 1974 (misdated 1973) |