by Sparks In Shadow
Mr. Flowers was the janitor.
At six, gardens, floral drawings or photos brought him to mind, ‘flowers’ appearing above them like letters learned on fat broken lined paper.
He yelled at kids who thought of walking on the grass or jumping over the wire fence by the back courtyard where we’d made it sag. But he loved my mother, scowling less in her presence. After a time, he wouldn’t yell if he saw me.
He seemed sadder when Mom was pregnant with my brother, staring long when she didn’t see. I watched him pine, jealous without knowing why, at six.