I first noticed her on my lunch break—hospital bracelet, thrifted vest, standing quietly by the dairy case like it was sacred. She wasn’t shopping, just gently arranging flower pots with handwritten tags: “Daisy,” “Lili,” “Rose.” Then more showed up each day, some in milk cartons with names—one was mine.
I finally spoke to her. She said her name was Flora and that the flowers weren’t memorials—they were prayers for those who still believed someone was listening.
As days passed, I saw small changes around me—people softened, hope bloomed. When my roommate Trina got a donor heart, a chrysanthemum with her name appeared in the dairy aisle. I started helping Flora, learning her quiet ritual.
One day she disappeared. A marigold was left behind with a note: “Now you bloom.”
Since then, The Garden grew. People began leaving notes, memories, tokens. Strangers found comfort. I found purpose.
Flora never came back, but I like to think she’s still there—in the soil, in the petals, in all of us who plant hope where it’s needed most.
Next time you walk past the dairy aisle, maybe stop and wonder—who would you plant a flower for?
