A story of my best friend and interacting with others through gifting away flowers after a year of no contact. Created with the background of a pier and New York spring.

As we were climbing down the stairs of 125th one train station, Isaiah and I paused at a sight under the stairs: flowers. Bouquets of multicolored roses in buckets lined the sidewalk, and when I looked at him I could see our minds were synced. We bought an assortment of pink, orange, red, and white roses and would hand them to strangers as we walked around. 

I held the bouquet as he grabbed a white rose, our fingers complemented by rings with engraved stars, his silver, mine gold. We walked towards the pier, laughing about the last time we’d done this in middle school when Isaiah had picked a flower and had given it to a mid aged woman walking on the street. That was two years ago, before you had to keep a six foot distance from everyone, when we still had school and had laughed when the principal told us hugging was absolutely unacceptable because of a far away virus that was beginning to spread. Now, as the world began its reopening and we could, we would take inspiration from the smile the mid aged woman had given us, and pass out our flowers. 

Sitting on a bench facing North sat a young woman with jet black hair reading a book. We walked towards her and Isaiah stretched his arm out to give her our first rose. She looked up at us confused. 

“We’re giving out flowers,” he said. 

She took it reluctantly and I thought she might try to pay us, but she only said thank you. I heard an accent peek through and was about to ask her where it was from, but Isaiah instead asked what she was reading. She tilted her book forward so we could see the lines of Arabic as she responded, “the Quran.” 

For every question I have Isaiah has five more. Chatty is a word that has been used to describe both of us as little kids, yet, when we’re together we are often comfortably silent. We backed up and walked uptown, proud of our first success. Although it was spring, the air was still cold, as if winter was desperately trying to hold on despite the color of the branches telling it, it was time to go. The pier was lightly littered with people and our recipient was a little old lady with a full head of silver hair taking film pictures. She gladly accepted and asked us what we were doing while she poked the stem through a loop in her camera strap. 

This time, I answered, “We’re giving out flowers.” 

We walked back downtown, creating stories for each person we’d met. The woman reading the Quran had recently moved to New York and she prayed by the water everyday. The little old lady with silver hair was born here and had recently discovered a love for photography after her husband’s death. 

We saw a tall man sitting on a bench in an army uniform looking out to the water, so we gave him a white rose.

“Big man, little flower,” Isaiah remarked as we walked back across the street beaming. It was a heartwarming sight, the man holding up the flower that looked so tiny in his big hands, puzzled but smiling.

Columbia’s Science and Technology building, all glass walls towered over us. A family with two young boys sat in the grass off the side of the building and we inaudibly handed one to the boy closest to us. As we walked to hand one to his brother we heard the mother yelp “No!” 

We turned around. The boy had put the flower in his mouth. 

We laughed and walked on, back to Isaiah’s, happily rid of the flowers. 

Process

I write about my experiences and my life. Yet lately, my work has solely surrounded my travels away from home. Here, I have put together a piece set in New york, featuring a pandemic spring, and my best friend, talklessly communicating with strangers.