Dunja carried her baskets of fresh flowers to the cathedral courtyard each day. She prayed that God would forgive her.
People had forgotten. Many had drifted or passed on. The youngsters didn’t seem to know the flower lady’s secrets.
Customers came by each day. They visited the cathedral and bought her small colorful bouquets. Yellows, whites. Carnations, roses. Pinks, reds. Lilies, asters.
It was a peaceful existence. She listened to their stories. Flowers for a wedding, a girlfriend. Sometimes a grave. Or sometimes a candle to burn in remembrance. Dunja shuddered, never told. Continue reading Flower Seller