I remember the corner.
It was where the street met the square. Where the tram tracks turned. Where the old town ended and the new town began. The corner was nothing special. A lamp post. A drain. A crack in the cobblestones shaped like a fish. I passed it every day. Going to the market. Coming back. Going to the church. Coming back. Going to the station that one time. Coming back.
She was always there.
I remember the first time I saw her.
It was winter. The snow was falling. She stood at the corner with a bucket. Plastic. White. The flowers were in the bucket. Tulips. Red. Yellow. Some white ones. Their heads were bent. The snow was on them. On her shoulders. On her hair. Her hair was dark. Her hands were red. She was young. Not much older than me. Maybe not older at all.
She did not call out. She did not wave. She stood there. Waiting. People passed. Some looked. Most did not. She did not move. The snow fell. The flowers bent lower. She stood.
I passed her that day. I did not stop. I had no money. I had no reason to buy flowers. I had no one to give them to. I walked past. The snow was on my shoulders too. On my hands. On my shoes. I did not look back.
I remember the days after.
I passed her every day. She was always there. The same corner. The same bucket. Different flowers. Tulips in spring. Roses in summer. Sunflowers in autumn. Dried branches in winter. Her hands were always red. Her coat was always gray. Her hair was always dark. She stood. She waited. She did not call out.
Sometimes she smiled. At a child who pointed. At an old woman who stopped to look. At a man who bought a rose and gave it to his wife. At no one. At everyone. The smile was quick. Small. It came and went. Like the snow. Like the sun. Like the flowers that changed with the seasons.
I walked past. Every day. I did not stop. I had no money. I had no one to give flowers to. I walked past. But I saw her. Every day. The corner. The bucket. The flowers. The red hands. The quick smile.
I remember the day I stopped.
It was spring. The snow was gone. The streets were wet. The tulips were red. She was standing at the corner. The bucket was at her feet. She was looking at the sky. The sky was gray. Not dark. Not light. The color of waiting.
I stopped. I stood at the corner. Next to her bucket. She looked at me. Her eyes were brown. Dark brown. Like the river in my city. The Jialing. Brown. Fast. Carrying things.
"You want flowers?" she said. Her voice was low. Not soft. Not hard. The voice of someone who had been standing for a long time.
I did not have money. I had the envelope under my bed. For the shoemaker. I had the coins for bread. For soup. For the letters Iryna sent. I did not have money for flowers.
"How much?" I said.
She looked at my hands. The cracks. The scars. The white lines on my knuckles.
"One," she said. "You take one."
I took a tulip from the bucket. Red. The petals were soft. The stem was wet. The flower was cold in my hand.
"How much?" I said again.
She looked at me. She did not smile. She did not frown. She looked at my face. Then she looked at my hands again.
"You take," she said. "You pay next time."
I stood there. The tulip was in my hand. The petals were soft. The stem was wet. I did not know what to do with it. I had no one to give it to.
I put it back in the bucket. She watched. She did not say anything.
"Next time," I said.
She nodded. I walked away. The corner was behind me. The bucket was behind me. The flowers were behind me. I did not look back.
I remember the next time.
It was summer. The roses were red. She was at the corner. The same corner. The same bucket. The same gray coat. The same red hands. I had money. A little. From the restaurant. From Lin. From the extra hours. I put it in my pocket. Coins. Small. Heavy.
I stopped at the corner. She looked at me. Her eyes were brown. Dark brown.
"You come back," she said.
I took a rose from the bucket. Red. The petals were soft. The stem had thorns. I held it carefully. I put the coins in her hand. All of them. More than the rose was worth. She looked at the coins. She looked at me.
"Too much," she said.
"Next time," I said.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she took another rose from the bucket. She put it in my hand. Two roses. Red. One for the money. One for something else.
"For you," she said.
I did not know what to say. I held the roses. The petals were soft. The thorns were sharp. She smiled. Quick. Small. Like the snow that came and went. Like the sun that came and went. Like the flowers that changed with the seasons.
I walked away. The roses were in my hand. I had no one to give them to. I put them in a glass in the basement. On the shelf by my bed. They lasted three days. Then they wilted. I threw them away. But I remembered them. The red petals. The soft stems. The sharp thorns.
I remember the day she told me her name.
It was autumn. The sunflowers were yellow. Their heads were heavy. They bent toward the ground. She was at the corner. The same corner. The same bucket. Her coat was gray. Her hands were red. Her hair was dark.
I stopped. I took a sunflower from the bucket. The petals were yellow. The center was brown. The stem was thick. I put coins in her hand. The right amount. Not too much. Not too little.
"What is your name?" I said.
She looked at me. Her eyes were brown. Dark brown. Like the river. Like the water that carries things.
"Kasia," she said.
"Kasia," I repeated. The sound was strange in my mouth. Polish sounds. Not Chinese sounds.
"What is your name?" she said.
"Shanhe," I said.
She repeated it. "Shanhe." The sounds were strange in her mouth. The 'sh' was soft. The 'he' was hard. She said it twice. Trying. The second time was better.
"Shanhe," she said again.
I held the sunflower. The petals were yellow. The center was brown. The stem was thick.
"You come from far," she said. Not a question.
I nodded.
"I come from here," she said. "Warsaw. I was born here. I live here. I sell flowers here. I will die here."
She looked at the street. The tram tracks. The lamp post. The drain shaped like a fish. The old town. The new town. The gray sky.
"You will go," she said. "One day. You will go far. You will see many places. You will sell no flowers. You will do something else. Something bigger."
I did not answer. I held the sunflower. The petals were yellow. The center was brown. The stem was thick.
"You will remember," she said. "You will remember Warsaw. You will remember the corner. You will remember the flowers. You will remember me."
She smiled. Quick. Small.
"I will not remember," she said. "I will be here. Selling flowers. The days are the same. The flowers change. But the days are the same. I will not remember. But you will."
I remember the sunflower.
I put it in a glass in the basement. On the shelf by my bed. It lasted a week. The petals turned brown. The head bent lower. The seeds came out. I kept the seeds in an envelope. Under my bed. Next to the envelope for the shoemaker. I did not know why. I kept them.
I remember the last time I saw her.
It was winter again. The snow was falling. The bucket had dried branches. Gray. Bare. She was at the corner. The same corner. The same coat. The same hands. Her hair was dark. Her eyes were brown.
I stopped. I took a branch from the bucket. No petals. No leaves. Just a branch. Gray. Bare. The wood was cold in my hand.
"I am leaving," I said.
She looked at me. Her eyes were brown. Dark brown. Like the river. Like the water that carries things away.
"I know," she said.
I put coins in her hand. All of them. All I had. She did not count them. She put them in her pocket.
"You will come back?" she said.
I did not know. I did not know if I would come back to Warsaw. To the corner. To the bucket. To the flowers. To her.
"Maybe," I said.
She nodded. She smiled. Quick. Small. Like the snow that falls and melts. Like the sun that comes and goes. Like the flowers that bloom and die.
"You will remember," she said.
I walked away. The branch was in my hand. Gray. Bare. Cold. I did not look back. But I knew she was there. Standing at the corner. Waiting. For someone to buy flowers. For someone to stop. For someone to remember.
I remember the corner.
I do not remember the day I left. I do not remember the train. I do not remember the station. I remember the corner. Where the street met the square. Where the tram tracks turned. Where the old town ended and the new town began. I remember the bucket. White. Plastic. The flowers. Red. Yellow. White. The gray coat. The red hands. The dark hair. The brown eyes. The quick smile. I remember her name. Kasia. I say it sometimes. In the other cities. In the other countries. In the other languages. Kasia. The name of the woman who sold flowers on the corner. Who gave me two roses for the price of one. Who told me her name because I asked. Who said "You will remember." She was right.