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He is just a simple old man.
Every day, he wakes up, rolls off of his mattress, and takes slow, stumbling steps to his closet, where he withdraws his clothes.
But today is different. Today, the tweed suit with the checkered vest is pulled out, brushed off with mottled brown hands, trembling, crooked fingers smoothing the fabric into place just so, palms paying homage to the soft, faded antiquity of the cloth.
He takes a shower, gripping the hand rail for support as he washes his hair, this time he uses the Mint shampoo, that was always her favorite. He dresses, carefully, stooping down with a low groan to shine his shoes. He straightens a red polka-dot tie in place, knotting it the way she used to, admiring it with sad, velvet brown eyes in the mirror. He uses the brylcreem she bought him for so long, combing it awkwardly through his hair, managing a lopsided part. He never really combs his hair anymore, the nurses just let him go, a rumpled old man with rumpled gray hair. He usually sits by the window, staring out, into the seas of thick, emerald grass and white, cheery daisies.
But not today.
He picks up the bouquet of wild flowers he saved up to buy, the flowers he saves for every week, and tips his hat to the nurses on his way to the door, the nurses giving him that combination of smile and pity, their large eyes turned downward as their lips curve up, a smile only a nurse can give.
He waits patiently for the bus, patting his pockets for the quarter he carefully tucked in a vest pocket, greets the driver, cling, the coin drops into the slot and he's home, home free, only a short ride to go.
He pulls the bell and makes his slow, steady pace to the door, once again tipping his hat to the driver. Some teenagers snicker behind their palms as he struggles down the steps and out the door. They point, laugh, and then move on to other conversations, forgetting the simple old man and his wilted flowers, his comedic tie.
He moves through the front gates, and straight over to her spot, beneath a dogwood tree. He enjoys visiting her the most during the spring, because the dogwood explodes in a nimbus of pink flowers, little blooms that look exactly like the flowers that were in her hair at their wedding, the blooms in her cheeks when their first child was born, the blush coated on her abandoned flesh at her funeral.
He kneels down, ignoring the fire of arthritis in his knees as he crouches in the wet, fragile grass, running trembling fingers over the letters on the headstone he so carefully picked out, the ornate script he vividly described to the smith.
He whispers words to her, resting her flowers next to the stone, his tears, like fat, melancholy raindrops, scatter over the grass, the flowers, even press against her tombstone in a sad, beautiful blessing. And then he gets up, slowly, but surely, and walks back to the bus, to take him back to the home, to stare out the window at all the pretty daisies, and the nurses will give him the pity-smile, and he will think about her, and the flowers in her hair that she wore at their wedding, and the curve of her hip that he rested his palm against while they danced, their loved ones around them, smiling, clapping. And once again, for a brief moment, he will smile, and think of her, and feel whole.
Just for one..simple...moment.