The checker at the grocery store
—also a widow—
remarks longingly
how she misses being brought flowers
as she fingers the blooms
I select for myself.
I tell her:
“I buy my own flowers,
rather than do without.”
She replies:
“He must have loved you very much.”
I had a boyfriend once,
who thought flowers an inconvenience.
He didn’t last long.
Still, he was my favorite.
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