If they could only talk, what sad tale would they tell?
Not quite red, nor white: what did their giver intend? And where they lay, upon the concourse floor: what did that signify? Apology rejected? Love’s hopeful gesture spurned? Or bon voyage, a last call from the gate and hands too full . . .
People milled, waiting for flights to Moscow, Majorca, Toronto, Istanbul, paying no note yet keeping a respectful distance. Even those rushing for gates treated those forsaken flowers like a sidewalk crack. Something had just happened and they’d seen it. I looked around but no one met my eye.
Photo by Ron Thompson at Barcelona Airport, August 2013
See how the story continues here.