The first Saturday after the funeral, Claire stood behind her tiny market stall and wondered what on earth she was doing. Three buckets of flowers surrounded her, roses, daisies, and something purple she couldn't name. The hand-painted sign reading “Flowers for Feelings” felt like a lie. She barely had feelings anymore, just a gray numbness where her heart used to be.

“How much for the roses?” A harried-looking man pointed at the yellow ones.

“Five dollars,” Claire said, then hesitated. Michael would have known what to add. He was the one who'd loved Victorian flower meanings, who'd courted her with bouquets that spoke in petals. “They… they mean friendship. Yellow roses. In the old flower language.”

The man's face softened. “My daughter's teacher. She's been so patient with him this year. Friendship roses sound perfect.”

Claire wrapped them carefully, adding a small card where she wrote: “Yellow roses—gratitude for your friendship and joy in your presence.”

After he left, she stared at the remaining flowers. Michael had left her three things: a house too big for one person, a journal full of flower meanings in his careful handwriting, and the ridiculous idea that she should share his passion with the world.

“You have sad eyes.”

A little girl, maybe seven, stood before the stall with uncombed hair and a Superman cape.

“Rosie!” A woman hurried up, catching the girl's hand. “I'm sorry, she just—”

“It's okay,” Claire said. “She's right.”

Rosie studied the flowers with serious concentration. “My mom has sad eyes too. Since Daddy went to heaven.”

The woman's face crumpled slightly before she caught herself. Claire's chest tightened with recognition, that look of holding it together in public, saving the falling apart for later.

“Purple iris,” Claire heard herself say, reaching for the flowers she couldn't name earlier. “They mean ‘your friendship means so much to me' and ‘faith, valor, and wisdom.' Good flowers for sad times.”

“What about happy and sad mixed together?” Rosie asked. “Because sometimes Mommy laughs at my jokes but then cries.”

Claire's throat closed. She knew that feeling, the guilt of joy sneaking in around grief's edges. She consulted Michael's journal, pages worn soft with handling.

“Daisies,” she said finally. “They mean innocence and new beginnings. And if we add some rosemary, that's for remembrance. Happy memories even in sad times.”

As she arranged the bouquet, she found herself talking. “When someone goes to heaven, it's okay to be sad and happy at the same time. The flowers understand.”

Rosie nodded solemnly. Her mother's eyes filled with tears.

“How do you know so much about flowers?” the woman asked softly.

“My husband taught me,” Claire said, the words less painful than expected. “He went to heaven too. Six weeks ago.”

A moment of perfect understanding passed between the two women, a recognition that needed no flowers to translate.

They bought the bouquet and a card that said: “Daisies for new beginnings, rosemary for beautiful memories. It's okay to hold both.”

Word spread as word does in small towns. The next Saturday, Claire's stall had a line. The divorced attorney seeking flowers that said “I'm sorry” and “let's try again” (white tulips and ivy). The teenager who needed “I like you but I'm scared” blooms for his crush (red tulips mixed with white camellia). The elderly man wanting a weekly bouquet for his wife with dementia, flowers that said “I remember for both of us” (rosemary and forget-me-nots).

Claire found herself becoming fluent in the language Michael had loved. She printed cards explaining each flower's meaning, added historical notes he'd collected, created combinations for feelings that Victorian times hadn't named.

But it was the widow's support group that changed everything.

Five women approached her stall together one drizzly October morning. “We heard about your flowers,” one said. “We need… we need flowers for a funeral. But not normal funeral flowers.”

“Tell me what you want,” Claire said.

For twenty minutes, they talked about Harold, who'd made everyone laugh, who'd grown the best tomatoes, who'd sung off-key in church with joyful abandon.

Claire built a bouquet as they talked: sunflowers for Harold's warmth, sweet peas for his departure, orange lilies for his humor, tomato plant blossoms from her own garden. She wrapped it in sheet music from an old hymnal.

“This,” one woman breathed. “This is Harold.”

After that, Claire started offering “Life Bouquets,” arrangements that captured a person's essence rather than just marking their passing. Families brought her stories, and she translated them into flowers. The market gave her a larger stall to accommodate the consultations.

One April morning, almost a year after Michael's death, a young man approached hesitantly. “I need flowers that say something complicated.”

“Most real feelings are complicated,” Claire said. “Tell me.”

“My dad and I… we hadn't talked in five years. Stupid fight. He died last month. I need flowers that say ‘I'm sorry' and ‘I love you' and ‘I wish we'd had more time' and… and ‘thank you for trying even when I didn't.'”

Claire's hands moved without consulting the journal: white orchids for “I'm sorry,” red carnations for “my heart aches,” rue for regret, but also yellow jasmine for grace and pink roses for gratitude. She wove them together with olive branches, the ancient symbol of peace offerings.

The young man cried when she explained each flower. “He would have loved this. He grew up when men couldn't say feelings out loud. These flowers… they're all the conversations we didn't have.”

“Flowers remember everything we forget to say,” Claire found herself quoting Michael. “They hold our words until we're ready to give them.”

That night, Claire went home to her too-big house and arranged her own bouquet. Forget-me-nots for remembrance, yes, but also daffodils for new beginnings. Lavender for peace. A single red rose for love that doesn't end with death, just changes form.

She placed it on the kitchen table where Michael used to leave her surprise bouquets, each with a card explaining what he couldn't always say aloud. Now she understood why he'd pushed her to do this—not just to share his knowledge, but because healing happens when we help others speak their hearts.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Rosie's mom: “Rosie wants to learn flower language. She says she wants to help other kids with sad-happy feelings. Would you consider teaching a children's workshop?”

Claire smiled, imagining Michael's delight at the idea. She typed back: “Yes. Let's help them say everything.”

The next morning, she updated her market stall sign. Under “Flowers for Feelings,” she added: “Every heart has something to say. Let flowers help you find the words.”

A line was already forming, the grieving and the grateful, the tongue-tied lovers and the reconciling friends. Claire took her place behind the buckets of blooms, Michael's journal open beside her, ready to translate the human heart into petals and leaves, one carefully chosen stem at a time.

Because sometimes the most important conversations happen without words, in the language of flowers that bloom despite every season of the heart.