The man with flowers in his hands

By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

I am not sure what street he starts from, but at approximately seven o’clock in the morning, I see him from my window. Sometimes he has a small plastic bag with a cutter. He would stop at the bougainvillea outside Aling Yoly’s alternate gate and inspects the flowers. In a minute, he has cut some and moves on, turning left on Madasalin. Out of curiosity, I take a photo of him cutting, and a video on how long he moves around the flowers and eventually cuts. From the way he stands, he must be in his early eighties.

My concern is for the flowers, especially the ones blooming for the first time, so I scheduled watering the plants at about the time he walks back, most often thirty minutes after. He walks past me, with a bunch of gumamela (hibiscus), rosal (gardenia), sampaguita (Arabian jasmine) and some other flowers. On very rare occasions, he only has one flower in his right hand.

He walks very slowly, even during the Extended Enhanced Community Quarantine (EECQ), with his mask hanging on his left ear, as he brings the flowers to his nose, his eyes closing as he inhales. His soft eyes shift to the yellow gumamela, and quickly refocuses as soon as he sees me looking at the “victims” in his hand. I am tempted to strike a conversation with him, but he evades me each time.

I have seen young boys who would just pick flowers for the thrill, and without much thought strew on the streets. I know men who love to send flowers to their loved ones, but only this man picks flowers every day, from somebody else’s yard.

At night, on several occasions, we would walk past each other along Mapagkawanggawa, as he turns left on Malingap, without the flowers. I do not see him now on my night walks, as I race home before the curfew at eight o’clock.

 

Night blooms

too many flowers blushing
seducing the moonlight

wafting scents among fireflies
as sirens blare on the streets
in vans with rotating blue lights

in the dark, the sky hugs
a waxing crescent moon
bathing faces in half-open windows
staring at the emptiness

on streets where ghosts start to dance.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers

“I will dance in the gardens,

and give freedom to the flowers.”

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