'Fresh Roses' by Zeeshan Ahmed

As she passed through a flower shop, she noticed the fresh roses. She could see droplets of water on those. Fresh roses always reminded her of him. How she used to find fresh roses on her birthday every year. Every year, on her birthday, she would find them on the dressing table in the bedroom. She waited for the roses every year. It was the most beautiful part of her birthdays. A few times she had forgotten her birthday as well, and the roses had reminded her of that. He never forgot her birthday. It all started after their marriage. On her first date with he had taken her to a flower shop and given her a bouquet of roses: all fresh.

It was last year, in fact a month after her birthday, he had passed away. A part of her life had gone away, and she just had to live without it now. It was her birthday in two days, and she knew that there would be no fresh roses anymore. She thought she’d buy some for herself, just to keep his memory alive.

She woke up early on her birthday, as usual. She stood up and looked at the dressing table. There were no roses, fresh or otherwise. Tears filled her eyes and then she smiled. After she was done with her breakfast she decided to go out and get the roses. She put on her coat, and left her house.

She came back with fresh roses, and placed them on the dressing table. The door knocked.

She reached the door and asked “Who is it?”

“Special delivery!”

Confused, she looked through the peephole and saw a young man standing there.

She opened the door and the young man, in his 30s apparently, spoke “Good morning! Mrs. Matthews?” She nodded.

“Oh, you have a special delivery. I am sorry for the delay. If you allow us to place the stuff inside?” Still confused, she nodded. The man waved his hand and two more men, younger than him, came in with two large curtains.

“Can you guide us to the bedroom, please?” She couldn’t make sense of this and again she nodded and pointed to the stairs. “First room on the left.”

The men came down soon. They had the same cartons in their hand, empty now, it seemed. She then asked “But who sent that?”

“Why, Mr. Charles Matthews, your husband, of course! He had wanted to keep this a surprise. And, happy birthday to you!”

She didn’t know what to say. She said thanks to the man and reached the room: it was filled with fresh roses. Some in baskets, some in the form of bouquets. She sat on the bad, and picked up a bouquet. She noticed a small paper attached to it.

Dear Martha,

This is for all the years to come.
Happy birthday.

Yours,
Charles.

She kissed the note, and found she was smiling and crying at the same time.