Honorio

There is a single suit in Honorio's wardrobe and he wears all of it every time he goes out: the old pink vest, the hat brushed with his sleeve, the boots knocked against a stone to shake off the mud. Then he chooses the flowers. His are dried, gathered in summers long gone, because fresh flowers wilt and his have to last the journey. He walks to where someone lives who hasn't received flowers in a long time — a window, a doorstep, a bedside table — and leaves them without knocking. He doesn't expect to be seen. He arranges the little bouquet, straightens his hat, and walks back to the forest slowly, hands behind his back. Some dress up to be looked at, and others do it out of respect for the tenderness they're about to give.