A Flash of Jazz - Roses
Dr. Timothy Jansen ensured he had his documents before getting out of the car and heading to the post office. He checked the package for the third time in the past twenty minutes and sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. As much as the documents were important for not only himself but also the recipient, he also knew that after sealing the envelope, they were secure. He exited his Volvo and made his way up the sidewalk, where a young woman with her toddler walked in front of him at a safe distance. She reached the door first and held it open for him. He cast a surprised look at her, then grinned as he thanked her for the moment of kindness. She smiled as he walked by and she followed. The cool temperature lobby awaited him and his important drop-off. He walked up to the mail clerk and handed the package to him, immediately regretting not checking it a fourth time. The clerk, a rather tall and quiet man with silver hair, quickly handled his request with little effort. Soon, Dr. Jansen strolled to his car and drove off as the worry of sending the package melted off his shoulders like butter. He arrived home and made himself comfortable on the back patio on his outdoor couch that held plush and weather-resistant pillows. He sighed with ease as he took off his shoes and leaned back. He stared at the sky window fixed in the ceiling and noticed that the clouds that lazily drifted by seemed to not have a care in the world. Of course, he thought to himself, why would a cloud have any worries or problems? Suddenly, he fell into his usual manner of thinking, carefully crafted and honed after twenty years of teaching philosophy to university students. Now that he was retired, he spent his days getting caught up on his reading, writing letters longhand to his friends scattered all around the world, and enjoying his blossoming green thumb. Dr. Jansen sat up and looked down at his clothes - his standard look of long-sleeved striped shirt, dark khaki pants with pleats and rolled up, and his near-disintegrating sandals. He never liked wearing jeans, even when he was younger and had more of a spring in his step. He got up, rubbed a sore spot on his lower back, then walked into his small garden to check on his roses. He bent down to smell one of the roses, only to sneeze out of the blue. He straightened up and laughed to himself, then resumed sniffing his flowers. It seemed that each one looked and felt different to him. He wondered if the roses had personalities and if they did, how would they be able to show it off? Would one's petals be a deeper colour than another, or perhaps one would look fuller than the others? Dr. Jansen sniffed one last rose, then went inside his cool living room. He sat down in his worn yet comfortable chair, pulled out his latest read, and dove into its world. Before he realized it, tears landed on the pages. He touched his face and looked at his wet fingers. "I guess I can finally say it," he murmured to himself as he wiped his fingers on his pant leg. "I miss her. Very much."
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