A multitude of flowers fill the immense wicker basket set on the back of man. Innocent and pretty, the pink and violet flowers embalm a fresh scented perfume reminiscent of a meadow at dawn in the middle of spring.

Even though the man is close to the delicate bouquet, he cannot smell the scent. He is otherwise occupied trying to lift himself up, his two hands standing flat on the gravelly ground. It is going to be a warm day, the sun reflects its rays on the powdery surface of each flower, and on the white garment worn by the man. He has to deliver those flowers to a rich merchant whose house is located on top of a steep hill. Same as every day, he wears his sandals and his yellow sombrero he bought himself last year before the beginning of spring, before the days were to become longer, and the pain on his back gradually unbearable.

His wife was woken up by his moans, she threw on her blue shawl and stepped outside to help him out get back on his feet again. She has always been present when things didn’t go his way, for the small, or the bigger obstacles. One more time, she comes to his rescue, lifts the heavy mass of flowers, and adjusts the pale-yellow piece of fabric knotted around both the basket and her husband’s body. She watches him leave the house usually from the upper window of their modest home.

Today she will say goodbye from the driveway. Today, she will hide the tear which usually comes running down her chubby cheek. Today, she will smile even harder to show how much she loves him, him and the life he has built for her, carrying innocent, pretty, pink, and violet flowers.