jml297

Daniel was walking quickly, as the rain which had threatened for most of the day was now beginning to fall with intent. It was only a short distance from his office to the train station, and most days he barely took in his surroundings as his mind flicked from one thing to the next. The raindrops were bouncing off his umbrella and he neatly sidestepped a puddle when a flash of magenta caught his eye.

He moved aside, just to the left of the slipstream of foot traffic. As the other pedestrians continued on, Daniel moved closer to the front garden of a house that he must have passed hundreds of times.

Whoever lived here had a green thumb. There were pockets of cosmos with their bright petals looking rather dishevelled in the rain, and some old hydrangeas added a deep blue swathe to the background in another corner. But it was the magenta zinnia that had caught his attention, and for a moment, he was somewhere else entirely.

As a boy, most summer holidays were spent with his grandparents. They lived in a modest house near a sheltered cove, and the pulsing ebb and flow of the ocean was part of the soundscape. Nan and Pop were keen gardeners, and had created a mix of practical and pretty spaces in their large yard. Daniel loved helping to dig over the soil ready for the next crop of vegetables, and took delight in deadheading the roses when he was old enough to be trusted with the secateurs. Pop oversaw the vegetables and citrus, but was also keen on zinnias. One summer, he asked his Pop why he liked these plants so much.

‘It’s for a few reasons, Danny. Zinnias are beautiful to look at, and easy to grow. They can handle a bit of heat, and don’t wilt when we have those hot days. But it’s also what they represent. They remind me of people we’ve known but are no longer around, of friends that have moved away. When I see the bright blooms, it makes me glad of the time that we had together.’

The rain was easing now, and with a slight smile and a nod, Daniel turned and joined the rest of the commuters heading to the station. On the ride home, he left his mobile phone where it was, ignoring any notifications or calls. Instead, he closed his eyes and recalled the garden of his grandparents, of the life lessons that they had shared with him in their understated way. And he thought once more of the patch of zinnias, of people he had loved and lost.

I’m participating in this blogging challenge for the month of January, which supports starting the year on the “write” track. You can find other posts with #bloganuary and join in the challenge.

Photo: zinnia in a garden

Daily writing prompt

What is the greatest gift someone could give you?

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