Mrs. Faraway

“Mrs. Faraway said she would buy the flowers herself,” I said to myself, not quite understanding what she meant by that. She had no need for flowers; flowers were for young people. Mrs. Faraway was old.

Her house was musty. It wasn’t like flowers could save the house from the darkness, but she said every day, mumbling to herself, “I’ll buy ‘em flowers myself, boy.” This line had no meaning to me then, not until much later. I was just her errand boy, someone who helped clean up around her place. I barely spoke to her and she spoke to no one. She was always locked up in her room.

One day I knocked on her door as usual, ready for any tasks she had for me, but there was no answer at the door. I opened it and crept in, noticing a peculiar smell. Running up to her room, I tripped on the stairs and pushed open her bedroom door. There was Mrs. Faraway, sitting in her rocking chair facing the window, not moving.

She was dead.

She was buried the next day. No one was there except for the priest and my family. We stood through the rain with Mrs. Faraway one last time.

A few days later my father called me into the kitchen. He told me that there was a letter addressed to me.

The cover of the faded envelope read: From Mrs. Faraway. I shuddered, thinking that a dead person sent me a letter. But my curiousity got the better of me and I quickly tore the envelope open to read it. It were her parting words to me. As well she had left fifty dollars in the envelope. It was a lot for a kid then, that fifty dollars. Though it was a horrible action, I smiled, happy that she was dead. That was until I remembered something. It was something she said to me and finally I understood it.

“I will buy ‘em flowers myself,” her voice echoed.

“And plant them on your grave,” I finished.

I ran to the flower shop with the fifty in hand and bought some daisies, I believed they were her favourite. Mr. Gregory, the store owner, greeted me with a smile.

“Who’s the lucky lady to be receiving these lovely flowers from you?” he teased, “Is it your mother?”

“No Sir,” I answered, “Just a friend.”

With that I dashed off, holding the bunch of flowers tightly in my hand. I entered the cemetery and walked to her grave. It seemed as if no one had visited. I placed the flowers at her tombstone and stared at it.

“Mrs. Faraway,” I called out to her and said, “Here are the flowers you said you’d buy yourself.”