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supposed to be in school?”
    â€œI can work afternoons.”
    â€œWhy aren’t you in school today?”
    â€œTeachers’ workday.”
    I pause. I got nothing else.
    â€œOkay,” I reply, not quite knowing how to respond. I was not really in need of another employee.
    â€œI could pick flowers for you. I found some real pretty ones over near where I live with my grandmother.” And then he pulls his hands around to the front, holding out a bunch of paperwhites. “I know where a lot of these grow.” He places them on the counter in front of me. “I figure I can find a lot more when spring comes.”
    I smile. “You know that you’re not supposed to take flowers from other people’s property, right?”
    â€œOh, these are from my grandparents’ farm,” he says. “Grandma said I can pick all I want.” He pauses. “She plants a lot of flowers every year.”
    â€œAnd just who is your grandmother?” I ask.
    â€œJuanita Norris,” he answers.
    And then I place him. He is the son of Diane Norris, who died a couple of months ago. She lived somewhere over in Montana but was buried here in Creekside. I did several flower arrangements for her funeral. I recall some of the sentiments written on the cards that accompanied the two peace lilies and the small basket of winter flowers.
We will miss her so much
, and the customer had requested that it be signed,
Everybody at Bill’s Barbecue and Bourbon
. Another had only wanted to leave the message,
I’m so sorry
. No name given. A small white card pinned to the white ribbon at the base of the plant.
    Jimmy had delivered all of the arrangements and had said that he knew the girl when she was small. He remembered her from school, where he worked as a bus driver for thirty years. He said that she had starting hanging out with the wrong crowd before she got to high school, was pregnant at fifteen. Her mother and daddy had raised her son, the boy standing in front of me, until he was five or six. Diane completed a stint in rehab and spent a few years in prison, but when she got out she wanted custody of her child.
    Jimmy said it almost broke her parents’ hearts and they fought her in court, but the judge sided with the mom, and the boy and Diane left town and moved to Billings. That had been about four years ago. She died from an overdose and her son was returned to Creekside and to his grandparents.
    I did a spray of white and pink carnations for her coffin and a large basket of pink sweetheart roses to stay at the grave. I added a sprig of lavender in the bottom of the basket since I know it helps with grief and guilt. I’m never sure what flowers do for the dead but I figure even a spirit, especially a sad one, is still able to gain something from beauty.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I ask.
    â€œWilliam,” he answers. “I like Will best.”
    â€œThen Will it shall be.”
    He stands, waiting, and suddenly I remember his request for employment.
    I sigh.
    â€œI learned about flowers from my mom,” he says, as if the information will somehow influence my decision.
    And, oddly enough, it does.
    â€œOkay, Will,” I acquiesce. “You can sweep up in the afternoons, carry out the trash, wash out vases, and just help me around the shop.” I think about what I’m doing. “I can only pay you three dollars an hour, and you can’t work more than five hours a week.”
    â€œCan I walk your dog? Can I find flowers for you?”
    I see the hunger in his eyes, the grief, the desperate way he is trying to stay connected to his dead mother.
    â€œYes, to both,” I answer, and he pumps his fist in the air.
    â€œBut . . .” I interrupt the celebration. “Clementine likes to chase cats, so you have to be careful when you have her on the leash. She’s very strong.”
    He watches Clem as she comes out from under the