I remember the way the little flower seemed weightless in the soft summer air.  The way it swayed on its decent to the grey floor of the bus stop on Skinner Street. I remember that day because of one individual in particular, the old lady who I called “Blossom” sitting to my right.

She was not exceptionally graceful or fancy in any way; she had a presence that made people stare at her.  With those wrinkles that reminded me of highways from distant destinations and the ever deepening “I want” line sculpted on her forehead. I could see she was old, and she knew it too.

The more I looked at her the more difficult it became to look away, as I started noticing all those little elements that makes a person unique in this world. The subtle gestures of control that seemed lacking in her overall stature, the finely weaved scarf around her voluminous neckline.

She wore those classic fifties cat-eye-sunglasses, making her face contort into a vintage Chanel illustration. Coupled with the quivering head and the dyed red hair she became my reason for a bus ride that I’ll never forget. She did not know it yet, but she was telling me a story, a story of a flower withering that could not understand why.

You could see the fear in her eyes, the way she methodically repositioned the scarf just made me think, she was simply trying to look her best, but not satisfied whatsoever at the results she attained. At one point she stared at her hand with an expressionless face probably thinking, “why can’t I stop shaking… are they looking at me?”

Yes madam I’m looking at you and all that I see is a young girl in her prime, luring men from their business by simply walking past. I wanted to tell her that she was beautiful to me, that she should consider leaving this world just a peacefully as she had entered it. That getting old is a right that can only be earned and that the wrinkles on her face symbolize the roads that she traveled to far away memories of loves and sunsets.

And then it hit me, she hated being old. I thought most people would. But the more I stared at her I realized that getting old was really not so bad. “Blossom” was afraid of dying, and what could I say to that?