I have come to the lavender gardens many times over the years. July is the best time to see the flowers; July is also her birthday.
She came here for her fiftieth birthday with her girl friends. They sipped champagne and ate small sandwiches and scones with clotted cream. I remember her delicate laugh as she opened their cards, mocking her advancing years. I would never have teased her like that.
Her name was Patricia—as beautiful as any flower. She didn’t notice me that day.
I sit on the bench waiting. Maybe this will be the year she comes back.