It was a wonderful summer day as I left the house to catch the bus. I had to ride a bus to town to go to school. A huge bucket of peonies, in all colors, sat brimming over my path. I went back in the house and asked my mother about the flowers. She came out and found a note attached.

The note said to the beautiful girl across the road.

I thought they were for the black-haired girl across the road, or her red-headed sister.

Mother said no, they were for me.

No one had ever sent me flowers before and no one has since, at least not in that abundance. I was thrilled, but no one had signed the note!

I asked a lot of folks and everyone claimed they didn't know who left the peonies. That was over fifty years ago, and now I sometimes think back and wonder which fellow left me the bucket of flowers? Oh so many peonies. Was he handsome and tall? Was he smitten with me? Did I know him? Gee.

Now I guess the mystery is forever. I'll never know who brought the huge offering, the bucket of peonies. My imagination still dreams about the morning and the flowers and who left them for me? Would I be pleased if I knew? Or would it mess up an otherwise wonderful memory?