Dear Diary:
I greet visitors in a community garden in Greenwich Village. One recent Sunday a chatty couple came into the garden.
The gentleman spoke of fishing, Montauk Point tides and the breezy day inland. His companion explored the almost fragrance-free hydrangeas and zinnias. She shared fragrance samples from the shop across the street, encouraging me to sniff each doused card to find my favorite. I said that my favorite fragrance was a mixture of floral and spice, Bal à Versailles, now unavailable.
Then they left.
The next Sunday, they returned. She handed me a foil rectangle package and insisted I unwrap it. It was an almost-full bottle of Bal à Versailles. It smelled heavenly and familiar.
She wished me happy Father’s Day.
Then for some reason, I blurted out that my mother had worn the fragrance, too. I continued: My father had died when I was 5, and every Father’s Day I had wished my mother happy Father’s Day.
This stranger and I both got teary.
I asked her name. It was Susan. Or Nancy. I was too distracted and moved to recall. She was an angel. And, like an angel, she floated away.
The garden is a gift and so are the visitors. Thank you, Susan. Or Nancy. Thank you very, very much.
