One Hundred and Twelve, A Bright Red Carnation

I almost missed it as I was walking along reading my fluff book on the way to the library. But the flash of color made me pause. I turned around but didn't see anything. Then as my gaze went back downwards to reconnect with the book, I glimpsed it. In the wintery gray world, its color made it stand out like a beacon. I bent down and picked it up. I imagined how it had gotten there looking so fresh. Was it late for a previous day this month? Or possibly a thank you to a visitor? Perhaps it was just a simple way for one person to say, "I love you," to another. These and more wonderful possibilities flashed through my head. I glanced up at others passing me but they didn't see it. They didn't know another human being was passing them by on their left. I didn't want to just leave it somewhere but I knew there was no purpose to me taking it home. That's when I espied a bench. It wasn't set on the pathway, rather a few feet back within a quagmire of mud. Balancing myself on a couple of thick sticks, I gently laid it down on the bench. Jumping back to the sediment-free (relatively) sidewalk, I looked over my handiwork, proud of what I'd done. I walked away a bit and then glanced back. There it was, the brilliant flash of color in the otherwise dreary world.