Mimosa



A man in a navy trench coat, crisp as if newly starched, was walking toward me.
In his arms, a large bouquet.
His posture was straight, his steps quiet, yet somehow light.

As I passed, a flash of bright yellow brushed the edge of my sight.
I turned.

Mimosa—so full it seemed ready to spill over.
Soft, downy blossoms trembling with each of his steps.

I watched him for a while.
Into whose hands would those flowers go?
When was the last time I received flowers like that?

His back disappeared into the café on the corner.
Behind the door, the mimosa swayed once more.
The yellow that had been there a moment before slowly dissolved into the air.