He was always good with flowers.

The girl on the crowded tram struggling with a gorgeous bunch of blooms on the way home from work? That was me.

The floral arrangement held aloft, making it's way through a busy call centre to be delivered to your desk? That's a great moment. 

But it's the first flower he ever sent me that I can never forget.

"Did you get it?" he asked me over the phone.

"Get what? Did you send me something?" 

"Yeah, yesterday. A flower with a card attached. Shit. Your house is number 43….isn't it?"

"No, it's 56!" 

I crossed the street and made my way down to number 43. The letterbox was stuffed full of mail and catalogues. If someone lived here, they hadn't checked the mail in a while. I swung open the wrought iron gate and walked hesitantly down the paved path to the front door. There on the welcome mat lay one gorgeous long-stemmed red rose. It had been undisturbed overnight, sustained by the plastic vial of water attached to the stem. I snatched it up gleefully and as I retraced my steps back home, I read the card, ripe with the overblown sentiment of burgeoning love.

I rang him back. Told him I'd found the flower, that I loved it.

And that maybe he shouldn't write any more poetry….

Happy Valentine's Day,  Bren.