The old man wore loose pants and a shirt that looked to be half his age and twice his size. He sold flowers every morning outside the market. His cart loaded with bouquets and buckets full of blooms ready to be wrapped and carried off.
Watching from my seat across via de Tosco Romagnola I counted as many flowers given to young girls as he sold to the mothers, businessmen, and passersby. Oftentimes I would arrive for a cappuccino before walking to my studio. Arriving as the cafe first opens, before the sun had risen above Florence in the east and long before the overnight fog had lifted, exposing the coast to the west.
The man in the loose pants, weathered and gray, was punctual if anything. His cart pushed into place as the sunrise chased the darkness from the street. Flowers arranged, buckets filled and cartons stacked minutes before the first pedestrians began to emerge from the secondary streets and alleys. Some moved quickly toward the bus queue while others moved less deliberate. Making their way to the cafe or market without hurry or purpose.