Folded Flower
by Doug Bond
Up at my Grandma's for the holiday break, she asked about my studies, other things, said she wondered what it was I had been busy scrawling away at. “Oh just a letter…to a friend.”
“Is that your girl…you still seeing that girl…the one from high school?”
I was surprised she remembered. I guess it was all pretty transparent.
She got up and told me to go on with what I was doing, went upstairs and returned holding a small dark wood box. She opened the clasp and leafed through some buttons, and things and pulled out an old yellowed letter folded up in a square. Attached in the center were the petals of a small flower pressed in wax paper. Uncreased, she read it out loud:
“Oh sweet Elipha I think of you dear
I yearn for your face in the light
An end to the darkness spreading the land
Your laughter with mirth and delight.
I fancy that you might fancy me….”
A catch came into her voice, and her eyes lowered with her hands. The silence felt strange, so I said I had no idea Grandpa was such a romantic old fool. “A poet no less!”
“Oh, no, goodness no, this was just a boy that loved me once.”
She folded it back into a square taking care with the brittle paper and dried flower. It was a poppy I found out later, a red one, she had picked years ago in a field when she was young.
“Is that your girl…you still seeing that girl…the one from high school?”
I was surprised she remembered. I guess it was all pretty transparent.
She got up and told me to go on with what I was doing, went upstairs and returned holding a small dark wood box. She opened the clasp and leafed through some buttons, and things and pulled out an old yellowed letter folded up in a square. Attached in the center were the petals of a small flower pressed in wax paper. Uncreased, she read it out loud:
“Oh sweet Elipha I think of you dear
I yearn for your face in the light
An end to the darkness spreading the land
Your laughter with mirth and delight.
I fancy that you might fancy me….”
A catch came into her voice, and her eyes lowered with her hands. The silence felt strange, so I said I had no idea Grandpa was such a romantic old fool. “A poet no less!”
“Oh, no, goodness no, this was just a boy that loved me once.”
She folded it back into a square taking care with the brittle paper and dried flower. It was a poppy I found out later, a red one, she had picked years ago in a field when she was young.
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Author's Note
Other stories by Doug Bond
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Oh, yes all is revealed in that last paragraph. Lest we forget - she never did.
Loved this, Doug.
Def fave
This is lovely, Doug. Bitter and sweet and real.
Great tone in this piece, Doug. Especially like how you close the piece. Good story.
this is a fine, fine piece. really nice writing, Doug.
Doug, just like Sam, I really like the tone in this and the ending. Well done!
Beautiful, a lot said in a short piece. The catch in her voice is so revealing.
thanks for the comments! I'm glad to have 52-250 on my weekly radar.
Berry berry good, Doug. I like the last paragraph a lot.
This is very nice, especially the words the boy wrote - great use of the prompt... nice pacing as well.
Lovely use of the theme. I so liked that the writer was not Grandpa. How much she, too, must have loved that boy. Nicely done.
thank you Shelagh and Cherise (hey, now that's fun to say out loud!)I didn't leave David out...i thanked him already
I love this. The pace, the narrative voice, the verse, the flower. It was all set up so well. The end feels right too. At first I had assumed the "poet" had given her the flower but I like it that she picked it. It adds yet another dimension.
Very well told. Very fine and beautiful.
thanks Ms. Q...i've just now gotten word it's going up somewhere...timed nicely for Veteran's Day as it turns out