@hamonqueen
She was not his real mother. His real mother had been buried long ago, a distant memory clouded in the years of early youth. From what he could remember she was kind. Light hair, just as his own. But that was all.
And upon the surface, it was a simple teacher and student. He’d learned from her countless lessons in the years passing and she, too, learned something of how to properly turn someone around. She had saved him, in many ways. A man who hadn’t deserved a second chance but was given one regardless. Warmth and kindness between them would be misunderstood by a stranger’s eye. It was simply something felt, regardless of words. Felt in quiet company. Sharing a cigarette, or a glance he wasn’t meant to notice. She was a hardened edge of a deafening blade... but mercy, looking at him, came natural in her eyes.
Perhaps he’d never understand, truly. But it didn’t matter. These were the moments that called her mother. That made her a figure of protection and of significance in his life. He felt too much, she had always been correct about that... but she really was too important to lose. He couldn’t accept it otherwise.
These musings had put together a humble idea. A bouquet of flowers from the shop in the city, ordered for his pickup later that day. White gladiolus and pink roses, flower language to represent an admiration for her spirit. Even if she knew, the simple gesture paled in what he could not say. How do you thank someone who had given you an opportunity that, seemingly, the universe did not want to happen? It was beyond any language.
And he wanted to deliver them in person, outside of her apartment complex with shallow nerves in his chest. The cigarette in his teeth, meant to help this, was now abandoned in the ashtray just a ways from the door. A sigh, and he approached, carefully knocking... waiting.
