Sowing Seeds of Love

Sitting on the bus this morning, an older Asian gentleman sat down a few, blue plastic seats in front of me, creating a large draft of air that wafted back to me. Immediately, my brain was flooded with nostalgia – he smelled like my dad. The man may not have been wearing the exact cologne my dad wears, but it was close enough to invoke my dad’s presence there on the bus with us. On inspection, the man’s physical appearance even reminded me of my dad – a smaller guy, well dressed, but in a slightly dated way, even down to his dress shoes. No matter the occasion, my dad prides himself on his appearance. Rarely when he goes out with my mom and their friends will he wear jeans and he always tucks in his shirt to his belted khakis.

This man was a little more nervous than my dad ever is though. His leg was constantly shaking and his hands were gripping and ungripping from the pleats in his khaki pants. His brown eyes behind wire rimmed glasses were darting from passenger to passenger, in what seemed hopeful expectation. There was one empty seat beside him and when finally an elderly woman was standing near the front, he said “Ma’am? Ma’am? Ma’am?” to her as he gestured to the seat. She pointedly ignored him and continued clinging to a metal pole, looking down at a pile of newspapers left by other passengers.

Somehow this little interaction touched my brain with sadness. The man was like my father and picturing my father trying to be kind to a stranger only to be ignored hurt me. Picturing this man or my father waking up each day, putting so much thought and hope into their uniforms, heading off into the world with smiles on their faces to be passed by and unrecognized, hurt me. Hurt me in that way only the world at large can hurt a person with its seemingly callous indifference to love, happiness, and joy trying to grow through all the rubbish. I pictured all the little kindnesses my dad might be strewing like seeds throughout his day, little kindnesses I miss out on receiving since I am further away from him and my mom. Sadly I imagined how if I lived closer, I’d tend each of their kindnesses in my heart until they grew into a garden of flowers. And how if I had more flowers to share, then this man’s presence evoking my father wouldn’t make me so sad; he’d be a reminder to hand out more flowers.

*Could it be that there is more than cliched romance in the act of giving flowers? This would explain the obsession humans have with delicate beauties of the flowery sort and why so much meaning is placed on them. Also, I've been tagged for my first meme by Christy, so I'll be getting to that post soon.*