I was changing the water in the flowers. I noticed some of them were beginning to wither and die, yet some were still vibrant and yellow. As I put them back into the vase I realized the card was still there, tucked in the centre of the arrangement, and I pulled it out…..To my darling wife. The handwriting wasn’t his. I know his handwriting, could imitate it perfectly. It was the handwriting of the florist I assumed, or maybe his mother. He hadn’t even been there when the flowers were purchased, he had been away working, but had gotten his mother to pick them up for me after the operation exactly 2 weeks ago. I tore the card in half and tossed it in the trash. 

At the time the gesture had, I will admit, tugged at my heart strings. When I had been released from the hospital and he had returned home from work, he had come to visit me. I  hugged him, he hugged me back. I told him to hug me tighter, and he squeezed me as tight as he could without hurting me. Part of me had wanted to feel something, a twinge of love for the man I had loved nearly my entire life, but it just wasn’t there. I’ll admit, I was a little dissapointed. The woman who had just underwent emergency surgery desperately wanted the comfort and love of the man that had once been everything in her world. Yet, the wife of the alcoholic, who had spent 10 years living in a lonely, rapidly sinking marriage, knew better. And in the end, she wins every time. 

The flowers sat on my coffee table for the next few days as slowly some of them began to shrivel, droop or fade. They sat there until last night….

I had a bad night, a bad couple of days to be exact. I cried. I was angry. I hurt. My weekend plans with Clarke had gotten messed up because of work and family obligations and I was disappointed. I had battled the demons all day and at 11pm I was a mess. I decided to take a pill, the very one that I so despise and go to bed. Wishing sleep would come quickly, I hid beneath the covers and played music on my iPhone. Music and my moods go hand in hand. I have a playlist for every mood. However, I played neither for some reason. Instead I played the song Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd, and double tapped the repeat button to let it play over and over again. It had been our song, Jay’s and mine, since we were kids, young and so in love, before addiction destroyed us. 

I listened to the lyrics word for word, over and over again and let my mind and heart wander aimlessly. I saw him, Jay, the 15 year old talking to me on the phone, playing his favourite Floyd songs for me to hear, the 17 year old sitting next to where I lay on his bed, strumming on his guitar and singing to me….”were just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl”, as I watched him and listened in complete and total awe and admiration, my young heart bubbling over with love for this boy who played guitar and sang to me. I remembered the later teenage years, when things became more complicated, and after a particularly bad fight we had made up and made love on a weight bench in his bedroom as the sound of Pink Floyd filled the room. 

The tears came freely as I remembered and for a brief moment I considered climbing out of my comfortable nest of sadness, getting in my car and driving to him. But I didn’t. Instead I wondered what the hell I was doing! What was I thinking? There was no going back, nor did I want there to be and it hit me then, as hard as the memories had. 

Now he gives me flowers? Now, of all times! Where were the flowers when it mattered, when I was so very in love with him, when I was so devoted and determined to make our marriage work. Where was the loving gesture then? I had loved him so damn much. I would have given anything to know, to feel, the love from him then. I would have given anything for flowers then. In an instant the sadness and memories turned to anger and I sprang to my feet, grabbed the vase from the coffee table, dumped the water into the sink and tore the flowers apart, tossing the pedals and leaves and stems into the trash. 

Fuck you and fuck your flowers. They are too little too late. 

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Comments
  1. hbhatnagar says:

    I don’t know if “liking” this was the right thing to do, but I can understand the pain somewhat and that is what I meant to convey.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. lilypup says:

    I really appreciated this post. You did a wonderful job. I really caught a twinge in my own life of what you are feeling.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. bipolarwhisper says:

    Great post!! Very well written. xo

    Liked by 1 person

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