Carnations in Spring

The morning breeze carries the smell of freshness that only comes with the spring air. With a promise of renewal, spring had finally come. I close my eyes and breathe in the morning dew that still lingers on the grass around me. The once vibrant nature around me has dulled since a year ago, I think to myself. The wind gently caresses my face, as if seeking forgiveness from a lost lover; perhaps it is. Seasons feel weird to me now, the way nothing stops or deviates them from their designated time gives the impression of breaking a sacred promise. 

The brightness of the morning sun reminds me of cherished journal entries, of a child with the brightest laugh I had ever heard, of lazy mornings with a cup of coffee on my bedside table, and of long-forgotten firsts. The aroma of freshly baked goods emanating from the café across the street fills my lungs, but even the customers look less enthused than usual; their days merely commencing. 

“It must be awkward for customers to come face to face with this gloomy old place the moment they step out the shop with a coffee in hand, don’t you think?” Someone speaks suddenly. “I wonder if they silently pray for the souls that rest here, on their way to whatever they do.” The voice is warm, bittersweetly familiar and has a touch of longing in it. It scratches the part of my brain that itches constantly, and feels like a calming balm to my burning soul. 

”Maybe,” I reply, still watching the inside of that quaint little café, “I doubt they pay much attention to it, to be honest. I certainly didn’t.” My eyes meet the owner’s, and I quickly avert my gaze from the pitying expression her face is taking. The expression is one I’ve gotten uncomfortably familiar with over past year. She reminds me of a loving family that was never mine, friends who fumbled for words, and warm summer nights now devoid of warmth. The man beside me seems oblivious to my racing thoughts, and I hope my face doesn’t betray them. 

“Oh?” I can hear the accompanying smile that he tags along with the question, “What changed?” He must know that it’s a dangerous question to ask someone sitting against a tombstone, but it still has a teasing quality to it which makes it take a little less courage to answer. I angle my body away from the street, my eyes scanning the graveyard that oddly feels like home. 

“I don’t know where to start, really. This gloomy old place used to be even gloomier, and it was in need of a little sunshine, I think. The problem is, it decided on the sunshine that belonged to me.” I turn my face to him, “The sunshine that I needed. The one that made me feel like spring had come early; it brought me everything you smell, see, and feel around us, with it. My sunshine was year-round, you see.” I inhale shakily; the air no longer fills my lungs as it once did, “When the sunshine gets taken out of spring, the spring becomes kind of a pseudo-winter. The colorful sights feel a lot duller and greyer because the earth loses the glow that always accompanies the sunshine. Then bees retreat into their hives, which means you can’t smell the pollen anymore, just the cold water that hangs around the atmosphere. The winds also feel harsher because there isn’t any warmth left that feels like a giant big hug. A spring without sunshine doesn’t feel like it has come at all.” 

His smile dims a little, “But winter—” He holds his hand up when he sees me start to open my mouth. The motion makes his hair fall across his face and I have to fist my fingers to stop myself from reaching out, “A pseudo-winter also has its charms, you know. Even if you don’t have perpetual spring sunshine now, it eventually comes naturally, doesn’t it?” That makes the edge of my lips curl, a smile or a sneer, I can’t tell. 

“Winter is cold, gloomy, and disgustingly wet. It may have its charms, but I’d choose my sunshine over them any day.” The scoff that escapes my throat is disturbingly condescending, “And the natural spring doesn’t even begin to compare with mine.”

“That may be, but who doesn’t love the warmth that winter brings?” The cheeky smirk he has across his face triggers a sensation akin to an addict receiving a new hit after a withdrawal. “The warmth of the bed that makes you never want to leave it, the warmth of coming home when you rush in from a pouring storm… I can go on if you’d like.” I roll my eyes at him because even though he may have a point, he also has an ego as big as the Titanic, which would have sinked a lot faster if it was any bigger.

“Spring and summer also feel a lot more gratifying after a harsh winter.” He adds with a wink, and I can feel the wind wane its apologies to me. The air envelops around me like a warm hug, reminiscent of my mother’s. 

“Fine, I concede.” I chuckle quietly, “Winter, or pseudo-winter, has its charms, the unfavorable sides just outweigh the good.” He gives me a pout at that, the smile lines around his mouth disappear, and two lines appear between his brows. He seems like a child who was denied extended playtime. The sight makes something ache in my chest, it’s an estranged feeling, one I hadn’t felt in a long time. My stomach churns, and I get the sudden urge to throw up, cry, or both at the same time. 

“Shouldn’t you be at work,” he asks suddenly, and the odd sensations within my ribcage intensify, “What are you doing here, on a weekday morning no less?”

“I quit.”

Shock morphs his face, “Why?” his voice cracks like a boy undergoing puberty, the thought makes the tip of my nose burn. I shrug, there wasn’t a particular reason as to why I had, “My heart wasn’t in it like it used to be, that’s all.” He hums at that, it’s self-confirming, a sound that makes me wrap my thin arms around myself. 

We sit in silence for a long time, or what feels like a long time, after that. The noises from the street between the cemetery and the café start to blend into the background. The rapid beats of my heart pound behind my eyes and I can feel a headache looming. My body feels heavier, my bones replaced with stone; I fumble through my bag, seeking a bottle of water to chase away the scratchiness in my throat, only to find it empty. Shifting my body towards him, I intend to inquire about a drink, but the spot where he sat is now vacant.

A clap of thunder echoes across the sky, and I realize with a start that the morning light has disappeared and the cemetery around me is now cloaked in darkness. I peel myself away from the tombstone I was leaning against as the heavy rain pelts my face. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been screaming for hours or like I threw up with an empty stomach, maybe I had. I can’t remember what brought me here, or the reason I was here in the first place. It’s almost impossible to see, and my clumsy attempt to face the name written across the cold stone makes my head spin. 

Panic grips me, the terror of that night flooding my veins. When I turn my face towards the sky, it is almost like the clouds part for me a bit, urging me to count the stars that litter across the sky. The rain-washed gravestones around me feel like companions, and I take a trembling breath. My blood rushes, and the ground seems unnervingly close.

***

When I come to, my face is pressing against the dirt across the grave. My lips taste like vomit, and my fingers are stiff. It feels like I tried to crawl myself into the arms of the person six feet under, a year gone. I lift my face then, read the name, and remember. The churn in my gut makes itself known again, and now I know why it feels like my heart is also six feet under me; why the burn of my nose, the scratchiness of my throat, and the heaviness of my body feel so familiar. 

It’s because they are. 

I remember, I remember, and I remember. 

In the haunting darkness of the cemetery, with rain pounding on my face and the memories flooding my soul; I remember loving someone with the entirety of my being, so purely that it consumed me completely. I remember denying and waiting for him to walk through the door with a bag of take-out. I remember screaming and pushing people away when they looked at me with that pitying expression. I remember making a bargain with death to take me, I remember him not answering. I remember being so overwhelmed with emotions they stopped registering and the never-ending emptiness that came after it. I remember cursing and blaming God; asking, questioning, but never finding a reason as to why. It feels like a spell that binds, and a curse that kills. It feels like laying bare on an autopsy table, with my heart nowhere in sight. I know that if remembering was a sin, and forgetting was a virtue, Lucifer himself would be taking me as his bride.

As I feel my heart start to slow, I remember, and I hope. The rain washes away the dirt on my face, mingling with the tears that finally come, it feels like a cleansing baptism in the midst of desolation. The pain, so raw and intense, becomes a testament to the love that once bloomed and now echoes in the silence of the graveyard. I hope that somehow, in the vast cosmos, he can hear my whispered apologies and feel the weight of my lingering love. The darkness wraps around me like a shroud, and as the stars above shimmer, I find solace in the shared secrets between the separated and the soon-to-be-reunited.