April 7, 2015 § 3 Comments

With Love


Lady of flowering shack—that’s how the villagers called her.

People had never heard her voice, but every day they could see her smile, her bright eyes, when she went around the neighborhood in the early morning—picking up dirty clothes at houses with her big basket and old trolley.

And in the late afternoon, she would be around once again, delivering clean and fragrant clothes—she put them neatly folded in her basket—to the neighbors.

People loved her. They called her ‘our sweetheart’ instead of a laundress—because they knew for sure her story.

The lady used to live with her parents—who loved her so much because they’d been waiting a child for years until they’re aged. Her parents were also very fond of flowering plants so much that their small house was literally hiding behind all the plants growing there. Colorful, fragrant, cozy. The villagers loved the flowers, too, and often bought them. That’s how the family could afford their daily needs—including sent their only daughter to a college at the town.

Then she met a man there and they got married, starting their new life in the town—only for two years. The lady came back to the village, still wearing sweet smile and attitude as she used to be, but people could see the deep sadness in her eyes.

Her old parents still loved her unconditionally, they lived as gratefully as before, until her father passed away because of his illness, and she lost her mother a year later, in her sleep.

The lady shed tears without a sound. People would think how devastated she was. She did feel lonely. But she didn’t want to drawn in sadness too long. She sold her parent’s house because that was his father’s last will—he knew very well that her daughter would need the money for living. And then she moved to a little shack on the edge of the village. She brought some of the flowering plants from the old house.

She started her life once again. Soon the shack was full of flowers.

She also worked as a laundress and gave her best to her customers. At weekends she would lock herself in the house and everyone wondered how such a smart lady like her had drown into such a deep frustration that she chose to live her life like this.

But still, they loved her spirit, and said nothing to her choice.

Nobody would guess what would happen this morning, when the lady came to their houses—still with her basket and trolley—but now with a piece of paper in her hand.

Wearing the brightest and happiest smile ever, she gave the paper to her customers to read:

This is maybe my last day of working for you. Thank you for all the beautiful time here. Ma, Pa, and I will always love this place, the people, and the memories. Next week I will get marry to someone that I thought I’ll never meet—the one who will complete me and I hope that’s how he thinks of me—I know he does. We are going to move abroad, researching plants—thing that we both love—all over the world.

Long time ago, Pa did a lot of experiments about fragrances of flowers. I continued his works, every weekends—I felt like he was with me all the time—and managed to create a simple formula for making fragrance from our own flowers. That’s why I love to wash your clothes because it makes me working something. I had written the formula for you. Please tell anyone you meet, give the formula, that’s how I gratefully appreciate all your kindness.

I will miss this place, but Ma and Pa and my love will always be here.

Thank you. I feel infinite.’


And the people who read the letter—with a long written formula below it—were touched to tears, as to see a deaf, mute lady from their village was going to live her new life journey.

They did say goodbye to the lady, feeling sad that they would miss her terribly, yet knowing that her fragrance of flowers would be always in the air of the village from now on.




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