Faithful

By Laura Schiller

Based on Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

The florist's suggestion had been violets.

For a friend, he'd said. A young lady who was leaving the city, going back home. He wanted to remind her that he would not forget her, that their time together would always be special to him. The girl behind the counter had explained to the customer that in the language of flowers, violets stand for faithfulness. He bought a cluster of the tiny, fragrant blue flowers, wrapped in white paper and tied with a blue ribbon, and left the store to wait by the train station for the young lady. It was six a.m.

Jo, as usual, was almost too late. She came scurrying along the platform, bumping into people and shouting apologies over her shoulder, her hat on the brink of blowing away, her carpetbag banging against her legs. She was about to charge right past him when he put out his hand to catch her. "Miss March?"

"Professor!"

She smiled.

Her face was not what most people would call beautiful, with its wide mouth, sharp nose and decided chin. But when she smiled, her grey-hazel eyes crinkled up with joy and a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth; it was like watching a fire blaze up, and Friedrich Bhaer couldn't help but smile in return.

"I have come to wish you luck," was all he could say. "And give you this."

She buried her nose in his bouquet with the unvarnished delight of a young girl. "Oh, how lovely! Thank you so much!"

"You … you will not forget, my friend?"

Something about the tone ofhis voice, which he had certainly not meant to be heard, made her glance up with a sudden look of concern.

"I couldn't forget you if I tried," she said, putting a hand on his arm.

A shrill whistle from the conductor, along with a blast of steam, made her draw away with an irritated grimace.

"Blast, I'm late! Goodbye, sir, and visit me as soon as you can!"

With a final handshake, she dashed up the steps and disappeared onto the train; seconds later, her smiling face appeared in the window. Friedrich mustered up a teturn smile as best he could, waving to her as long as she was in sight.

Once he could no longer make out her face, even through his thick spectacles, his hand dropped to the side and he stared after the retreating steam engine with a quiet sigh. She was going home … home to watch "her boy Teddy" graduate. He wondered if even the violets would keep this bright, vivid woman from losing track of the past three months; nothing but a brief episode of her life, a few conversations with a quirky old German. He could feel every one of his forty years weighing down his back.

"Adieu, Josephine," he whispered to the wind.

Almost half a year later, a lonely young woman searching through the relics of her past in four wooden chests, belonging to four sisters, came across a fragile bunch of dried violets pressed in an old exercise book. The ghost of a scent still clung to them; it made her eyes sting, recalling that bittersweet moment at the train station. A card fell out; she unfolded it and read.

Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come.

- F. B.

She took in the uneven, spiky handwriting, noticed that he had called her 'my friend' (he only did that in emotional moments) and remembered the grasp of his warm hand, the sound of his voice, the kindness in his eyes.

"Oh, if only he would! … I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now … how I should love to see him … "

She put her head down on a rag-bag and cried for the absence of the one man who could make her feel complete, never dreaming that many miles away, that man was thinking of her as he watched the stars.