Nestled in the grey depths of midtown, on a street that may never see sun, in a tiny midblock storefront, is a sweet man who lost his love years ago.

The lonely pain of loss is new in his eyes, even when he smiles, perhaps frozen by love’s daily traffic. The aromatics of his flowers are subtle, perhaps due to his dedication to them.

Omar the florist brings me back to the New York of my childhood, the one where everyone was not-so-secretly an artist and art splashed not-so-secretly on every surface. It was a place that was populated by people with open hearts and eyes, a city where chance encounters never were, a New York I’m bringing back.