Cityscape with Pink Rose

I stop at the flower lady's cart to see if she has roses. There are a few, with straggling leaves. The blooms are decent still, especially those in pink.

She interrupts her desultory lunch, brushing crumbs from her sleeve, to slip a long-stemmed pink from among the buds, carries it to her work table, and deftly wraps the stalk in a yellow paper, tying it, gentle-fingered, with a thin red ribbon.

I watch her eyes as I buy; they are like those in the face I love, but the spirit is closed: she has dwelt upon disappointments.

As I turn away, I see in my mind's eye, myself turning back to buy for her one of her own roses. Ha! no doubt she must throw away many; of all things, wouldn't she be sick, by now, of flowers?

Trading, as she does, in these signs of the happiness to others, what would be happiness for her, here, today? I catch her tracking me warily; now, as if to say: is there some problem with the rose? No. Or, rather, yes. Or no. I stand, unworded by the mystery of unsharable joy.