🔴 THE AIR CONDITIONER REPAIRMAN KNEW MY MOTHER’S NAME — AND I NEVER TOLD HIM
I almost slammed the door, but something made me stop and just listen.
He was going on about the coils, the freon, all that technical junk, but then he paused and I heard him say, “Your mother always kept this place so clean, even when…” even when WHAT? The clanging from his tools felt like a hammer in my chest.
He turned around, wiping sweat from his brow, and smiled like everything was normal. “Just saying, she had a real green thumb. Those orchids are thriving.” I haven’t touched those orchids since she passed. “She told me to always water them with rainwater.” I almost screamed. “She wouldn’t want them to die.”
Then his phone rang, a tinny polka tune, and he answered with, “Yeah, Mom, I’m almost done here.”
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The polka music stopped abruptly, and he put the phone back in his pocket, that same easy smile returning. “Right,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Coils are clear, freon’s topped up. Should be blowing ice cubes in here in no time.”
My heart was still thudding against my ribs, the sound louder than his tools now. “How… how did you know my mother?” I finally managed, my voice trembling despite my attempt to keep it steady.
He paused, his eyes meeting mine, and the smile softened, losing its professional edge. He didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Oh,” he said, a note of recognition dawning in his eyes. “You’re… you must be Sarah?”
I nodded, stunned that he knew my name too, though less so now.
He leaned against the doorframe, the workshop grease on his jeans somehow less threatening than moments before. “Mrs. Davies,” he began, using her married name, which felt like a lifetime ago. “She was… well, she was good friends with my mom. We lived just a few blocks over on Maple Street. My name’s Tom, by the way.” He offered a hand, and I automatically shook it, his grip firm and warm.
“Tom,” I repeated, trying to place him, but my childhood memories felt hazy, buried under years of absence.
“Yeah,” he chuckled lightly. “I was just a scrawny kid back then. Mrs. Davies used to let me help her in the garden sometimes. Said I had a knack for digging holes that were just the right size.” He gestured towards the orchids. “She always told me about those orchids. Said they were her pride and joy. And the rainwater trick – that was her secret, she told me. Always said tap water was too harsh.”
The pieces clicked into place, a flood of forgotten details returning. My mother’s kindness, her ability to connect with everyone, young or old. The neighbor kids she’d encourage. The ‘even when…’ comment suddenly made sense too. He must have seen her during the later years, perhaps when the house wasn’t as meticulously kept as it once was, but her spirit, and those resilient orchids, remained.
A warmth spread through me, replacing the fear. It wasn’t some creepy, inexplicable knowledge. It was just… connection. A simple, human link to a past I sometimes felt was slipping away.
“She was a wonderful woman,” Tom said quietly, looking at the orchids again. “My mom was really sad when she passed.”
Tears welled up, but these were different tears than the ones that had threatened to fall earlier. These were tears of unexpected comfort. “Thank you, Tom,” I said, my voice thick. “For… for taking care of her garden, even just in memory.”
He gave a small, understanding smile. “Anytime, Sarah. She taught me a few things about keeping things alive. Seems like they’re still thriving.” He pushed off the doorframe. “Alright, well, the AC should be good to go. Let me just pack up.”
As he gathered his tools, the clanging was no longer a hammer in my chest, but just the sound of a man finishing his work, a man who happened to carry a small, unexpected piece of my mother with him. The house felt less empty now, filled not just with cool air, but with a quiet, shared memory of the woman who had made it a home, and whose green thumb, and spirit, clearly lived on.