No flower could win his heart anymore. Even the most charming ones could not soothe him. Every evening he stared at the empty street from the balcony, his shoulders drooped as if it were the last time to enjoy life, and then smoked a cigarette between his lips. 

Every day, on his way home from work, he passed through Baharestan Street. There was a small flower shop on the corner whose window was full of fresh flowers. From daffodil, clove and iris to jasmine, petunia, rose and coleus, all young, fresh and wicked. They watched the man from behind the misty window and invitingly waved at him, sending greetings. But he averted his eyes when he reached there and distracted himself with everything but the flowers. 

“They’re not lasting. Just ornamental. Should be watched only from the window,” he muttered.

 Then he made an abrupt turn to take refuge in his loneliness. 

Some days the florist, standing at the door, would wave at him and invite him in, hoping he might be interested in the new flowers and buy some.

“Look what I’ve got here. Fresh irises. Ain’t they lovely? A little light, a little water. That’s all. Shadow’s fine too. Look how beautiful they are! Take’em home for a week if you want,” he said.

He kept stalling and would not go into the shop. Putting on a fake smile, he lingered at the door.

“No, No… thanks… maybe another time,” he said.

Then he nodded at him, grabbed his bag tightly, wanted to leave.

“Just a second… I know what you want.”

Then the florist pointed to the tiled floor of the corner and eagerly looked into the man’s eyes.

“Look at those Shiraz narcissus. Charming. It is definitely to your taste. Smell heavenly. Fills your room in the night… like’em?”

The man frowneded and mumbled, which meant “No.” He didn’t want to be captivated, to be bewitched. He didn’t want to have any flower ever at his place. He would rather he was always alone than left alone again.

Days and nights passed, and the man inured himself to his evening cigarettes on that sorrowful balcony. Its faint glow could warm him. The beauty of anthurium could not deceive him anymore, and the smell of orchid could not seduce him; neither did the fragile and delicate body of a rose interest him. He wished people and their flowers could last a lifetime for each other. Then the smoke of his cigarette united with a cold sigh getting off his chest and in that cold winter sunset went up to the sky.

One day, on the way home, he noticed a new plant behind the flower shop’s window. It was small and almost hidden among the intimidating leaves and branches of other plants. He stopped and turned his head. Then he got closer and stuck his face against the window. It was a petite plant, unlike those he was always seeing. It looked like a newcomer. Its small leaves were green, fleshy and juicy. They were coniferous and upward, as if praying to the sky. Their striped lines were like neat outerwear. He looked closer and could see small thorn-like hairs on the leaves to protect the plant. 

It was not beautiful or charming. It didn’t wave at him or greet him; neither did it try to seduce the man. It was silent, and with its silence, it was saying something. The man was curious. He wanted to know more, so he entered the shop. The florist, having a Juliet plant in one hand and a trowel in the other, was thrilled to see the man. After greetings, he wanted to talk about the new plant he held, but the man pointed to the window and asked:

“What is that new plant? The one in that corner?”

The florist hesitated and frowned, then came closer and had a look.

“Which one? Oh, that is African cactus. Haworthia. It is long lasting, but, well… It doesn’t have a special smell or fragrance. Not attractive either. Forget it. I have plenty of better flowers for you.”

The florist smiled, and took a peek at the Juliet plant which was sleeping peacefully in his embrace. Again he started talking about its beauty but the man interrupted:

“I am going to take it.”

The florist didn’t say anything. For him the man was a tasteless customer who didn’t know anything about plants and flowers.

“Really?!” He asked.

The man stood straight and nodded.

On the way home, he held the plant with both hands, and looked at its small, green, rough leaves every few seconds. He couldn’t see what it was in the new plant that had moved him. He placed it carefully on the ledge of the balcony when he got home. He stepped a little back, and while keeping an eye on it, sat on a wooden chair in front of it, crossed his arms, and relaxed. The plant was silent. The man was silent. Both were watching each other and a cool breeze was blowing. 

After that, every evening when the man arrived home, he went first to visit the plant. He saw it peacefully on the balcony, staring at the street below. It was as if the plant were waiting for him. Then he leaned back in his wooden chair and gazed at the Hawthornia. 

It was one of the last days of winter when the man broke the silence. He told it about his lovely lily which was his mate in his loneliness, that he used to go to her immediately when he got back home every evening and kneel down before her, that he stroked her fresh petals with his hands and drew the curtains open every morning, so she could catch the sunlight with her leaves. He told it of the day when he got home and saw the Liy had yellow spots on her leaves, nasty-looking orange crusts. There were small brown spots on every petal and he didn’t know why.

“I wanted to give her spirit back to her, but it didn’t work. She went dry more and more every day,” said the man with a sadness in his voice while making eyes at the Haworthia.

He was restless. He stood up and stayed next to the Haworthia, wanting to touch its tiny green leaves. His hand shook.

“I had no other choice but to cut its dried leaves one by one. When I cut them off and held them in my fist, it was as if my heart was being clenched. The next day I took her to the flower shop to treat her and save her. But it was too late. I remember that the florist tapped me on the shoulder, smiling, and said: 'Flowers! They all die off. Never mind. Just take another one.'”

Then he came to his senses and he saw that he was stroking the Haworthia leaves. But the rough leaves and their thorns weren’t bothering him.

“On the last day, a poor, thin stem, a cold pottery vase, a fist of soil, and some dried root were all that remained of her. I had to put her in the kitchen next to the trash bin,” he continued.

His eyes filled with tears. He remembered that it was the same day that he decided to come to this lonesome and sorrowful balcony every evening.

When he finished his words the day was also over. The sun was setting and the whole world was at peace. It was as if the last days of winter had passed, both the cold and the silence broken. The Haworthia and the man looked at each other in the silence of the dusk. The Haworthia was not a stranger anymore. It was the man’s confidant. Something had changed in it and the man realized it several weeks later. One day, he got home as usual, and he saw something strange from afar. His heart beat faster. He walked closer and looked at it carefully. The Haworthia had turned into another flower. He saw the little plant with those fleshy, succulent leaves and hairs had a crown of pink and red flowers over it. It was spring, and the plant had blossomed. On that day, the Haworthia became, to the man, the most beautiful flower in the entire world.

winter 2018