PEACE, WILTING

I’m sipping an almond milk latte seated outside Blue Bottle Coffee with an old friend who’s visiting. It’s a chilly morning, the kind that exists in the Bay Area despite seasonal expectations for June. We’re here for a bite— mindful to keep room for a heavier lunch later. It’s rare that I’m out for breakfast on a weekday, that too with company, so I’m savoring the moment.

 

“This smell…” I say, taking in the heady delight of caramelized sugar from a Liège waffle, “... takes me back to street corners in Brussels.” 

 

“You know about scent and memory, right?” he asks.

 

But before he can continue, I’m distracted by a woman who has materialized to my left. She must have snuck up on us from a blind spot beyond my field of vision. Clutching a large bouquet, she has inserted herself into our conversation even before speaking.

 

“Would you like to buy some flowers?” she asks.

 

Her manner is polite. Still, she brings the discomfort of uninvited proximity and solicitation. How long was she standing nearby before emerging? She takes yet another step forward, extending her arms even further in my direction.

 

We are close enough now to touch, close enough that I notice she wears the dryness of her aging hair and a crumpled dress over her exhaustion, her body a contradictory mix of largeness and fragility. The flowers mirror her appearance: drooping, unfresh, browned at the edges. Girded with wraps— the goods for sale in clear cellophane and their seller in a knee length coat — they both struggle to stay standing. 

 

“It’s for world peace,” she says, as if sensing my unasked question.

 

World peace. 

 

It’s such a bold, ludicrous claim —that too for withering stems —that I am tempted to articulate an objection. 

 

“No thank you.” I say. 

 

She labors a genuine smile, then hobbles onward in the direction of another Blue Bottle customer seated close enough to have overheard our exchange. Without wasting a moment, I shift my attention back to my friend and whisper, incredulous. 

 

“World peace? Really?!” 

 

“I know.” His expression registers faint amusement while mine leans toward irritation. 

 

Why not just be honest?

 

I analyze her failed promotional pitch, first from a marketer’s perspective, then as a prospective customer. With both scenarios, I’m vexed. Who would buy this story of dying flowers delivering world peace?

 

Unaware of my troubled reflections, the flower lady continues down the sidewalk. Twenty or so feet from where my friend and I sit, the other customer I noticed earlier— a man, middle aged, dressed in casual chic— is enjoying his own drink. Predicting that he too will dismiss the flower lady when approached, I stare, expecting validation.

 

But the woman passes him without stopping. Her pace doesn’t even slow. She speaks no words to him, not one. As she proceeds onward, he looks up for a second or two, long enough for us to exchange a look.

 

With knowing nods and words not spoken, we speak to each other. World peace. Imagine! Good thing we know better.

 

For a brief moment we are friends, celebrating shared perspective, mirroring each other’s understanding: the flower lady exists as no more than an unwanted interruption, a pinprick popping our cafe lounging bubbles. We comfort in the warmth of our chilly morning connection, though we both know that this feeling too, like steam from our cups, shall rise and dissipate within seconds. 

 

And it does. Soon, all that’s left is three soggy cups, three silent pauses, and three judges— my friend, the other customer, and I— whose quick assessment of a stranger peddling languishing blooms sought to shortcut a return to our indulgent mornings. 

 

It’s tempting to conclude that we made a reasonable choice. It’s also tempting to judge the flower lady’s methods and motivations. But now, in the lingering scent of wilted flowers, I am left with my own set of lingerings. What perceived quality of mine gave her hope that I might help before I declined? What did we both lose from the exchange?

 

These uncertainties create tension. She came with a need but also an offering, however imperfect, of peace and beauty, no doubt stemming from a need to survive. Unlike the more honest alternative of Please help me, her narrative of world peace— an indisputably worthy cause —afforded her a chance to maintain her dignity. 

 

I look down the sidewalk, longing to call out to her, wanting, needing her to return, but I can’t even scream for her without knowing her name. I wish for another chance on this chilly Friday morning, a chance to do it over, to get it right this time. But it’s too late. She’s gone.

 

Waffle consumed, I am left with nothing but a few vagrant crumbs and an empty paper napkin. I was given a chance to buy myself, if not the world, a bouquet of peace— with the opportunity to move one step toward creating a community where all of us have enough— in exchange for a few dollars. The offering came concealed beneath wilting wares and words. It was mine to have, if only I had listened deeply enough to decipher their hidden meanings.