XXO
Back when Forrest’s friend Evan first encouraged him to sign up for the Labor Day triathlon, Forrest had explained to us—with a look of regret—that his participation required serious training of a kind likely to be painful to an old man like himself.
But until Brenda Barnett appeared on the scene, I hadn’t noticed any big level of commitment on Forrest’s part to train for the event.
Now all that had changed. The brief, wonderful stretch of weeks in which I’d had breakfast with Forrest every day seemed to be over.
As early as I came down to breakfast now, he was always gone already.
His training for the triathlon required him to spend most of the morning on his bike, he told us.
Afternoons he alternated between running and swimming.
As early as I got up—six o’clock, most mornings—he’d be off on his bike already.
He might come home sometime in the late morning, but when he did, it was mostly to take a shower and fix himself a protein shake before heading out again for his swim or his run.
I brought the pansies up to my room, lifted the mattress, moved the row of BBs, and took out my precious journal. I placed the pansies in the pages of my journal with another book on top to flatten the petals.
None of this was simple. But at that moment, the gift of those flowers meant the world. That little bouquet had been a message. Forrest Emerson still cared about me.