The Touch of Tears

Alistair enjoyed the walk through the wooded areas of the Glen. He passed a couple more ponds and some small streams. Everything was green, lush with life. That was it, was what he felt filling him...the livingness of the place. As he walked, he began to sing the old hymn, "This Is My Father's World."  Yes, he could do it, he could rest him in the thought of that. "The rocks and trees, the skies and seas, Thy hands the wonders wrought," he sang in his well-rounded baritone.

Ah, there was the greenhouse. Hadn't Bridgid said it was brand new? He was surprised at the size of it and the complex around it of stable and large old home. He stopped and stared at the rust-colored house. If he didn't know he was in Australia, he'd swear he was back in England. The building just shouted 'England' into the air of New South Wales. How strange. It also looked a lot older than the mill, though much better kept up. He figured the mill was probably the original building in the Glen area.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the scent of roses. Then he saw the sign. "Rose Hill Greenery" he read aloud with a smile. "Perfect!" Movement to his left caught his eye where three riders were returning to the large stable. A woman, who had been tending the house garden, also saw them and waved and one of the riders, the man mounted on a white horse, cut away from the other two and rode in her direction.

Alistair continued on around to the front entrance to the greenhouse. Entering, he discovered row upon row of nearly every flower he could name and many he could not. He had been reared in the gardens of England and English flowers remained his favorites. That was what had pleased him to see the yellow and purple iris growing by the millpond. It was also why he'd come to see if he could purchase more to plant.
He needed to dig in the soil, to plant something that had roots so that in the plant's growing into the land, he would also grow into it, become a part of it like the plant. The parsonage near Coffs had had only the tinest patch of land and it was all tall hedges with a spot of lawn. There had been nothing for him to do there, nothing to connect him to it. Now here he was on his second day in the Glen, standing in a nursery with
iris dancing in his soul.

He went down two or three of the rows but didn't come across any iris. Surely there were iris somewhere in all this bounty? Was there no one who worked here he could ask? Four people had left the greenhouse just as he'd entered, but all of them were customers. So far he'd not seen anyone who looked liked they worked here and now the greenhouse seemed empty but for him. He wandered along, making mental notes for future purchases of flowering plants, finally coming to a far corner past where huge hanging baskets had blocked his view. Ah, there was
someone here! She had her back turned and the hood of her grey sweatshirt jacket was up and pulled forward, which he found a bit odd on such a sunny day. Her face was turned away from him and he thought she might be leaning her forehead against the glass wall.

"Miss?" he called softly, hoping to get her attention without startling her. "Do you know where the bearded iris are?"

The slender woman straightened, seemed to hesitate, then turned her head. He didn't mean to, but he gasped. He was looking into the most lovely, hauntingly sad blue eyes he'd ever seen.