Flower in a Fractured Vase

The sun blinks behind a row of clouds, overlooking the garden where I sit between the arms of an old wooden bench. About my feet, purple crocuses poke their heads through the patchwork of grass, still damp from the early morning rain. Above, birds flutter from tree to tree singing love songs to one another, a welcomed sound after the frozen silence of winter. A feeder was hung for them in the hands of a large birch at the center of the yard. Chickadees, white-throated sparrows, house finches, and the scattered grackle (I know all their names by now) feed swiftly on sunflower seeds, while a lone squirrel scrounges for scraps on the ground. All around, patients wander, paying little mind to the paved paths.

I watch Barry crouch to pick another flower and add it to his growing bouquet. He’s a tall and stoic fellow who seldom speaks. It’s his first time outside hospital doors since he tried to jump the fence. It took four nurses to haul him down. That was two weeks ago, and now he travels in a pair, his nurse never leaving his side. As they pass people by, he hands out pieces of his collection, exchanging a thank-you with a simple nod of his head. From what I’ve heard, he used to be a construction worker.

Marie and her daughter walk arm-in-arm. She’s in her seventies and prone to violent outbursts, though she more often sits and stares straight ahead or strolls the halls in the early morning hours. Her daughter visits almost every day. She’s always cheerful, though her smile rarely reaches her eyes. She believes her mother doesn’t know her, but I see the calmness wash over Marie every time she visits.

In the corner, Nikolaj plays chess with his nurse. He’s a short, grey-haired man who immigrated from Denmark with his husband, Marc. He speaks of him frequently, telling tales of their adventures across Europe and of their plans to travel to Australia. He recounts the same stories to anyone who’ll listen, his joyous laughter filling every room he enters. I asked him on several occasions when Marc would be coming to visit.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Nikolaj would say, but tomorrow never came.

Sophia was the one to explain it to me. Marc died some months ago. Nikolaj was admitted shortly after.

Now, Sophia sits cross-legged on a blanket nearby, sketching the scene before us in what is sure to be miraculous detail. She’s a shorthaired woman, no more than twenty, with arms covered in tattoos. She arrived here just before I did, and we bonded over our love of art. I call her my Van Gogh, except she draws instead of paints and her ear was torn off by her step-father’s German Shepard. We’re a cliché, her and I; the troubled artists (though I wouldn’t necessarily call myself an artist). She says our art is an expression of all the love we cannot give ourselves. I tell her maybe she should be a poet.

I pull my attention back to the notebook spread across my lap. I used to love to write. I’d spend hours unable to bring my pen to a stop, words flowing out of me like a dam give-way. I used to dream of a life as an author, but I’ve been so tired lately and the words no longer swell in me as they once did. My counsellor suggested I start writing letters to my future self. Something about ‘visualizing healing’ and ‘getting in touch with my goals’. I’ve stared at the blank pages for days, wondering what I’m supposed to write when the future seems so distant and out of reach.

I force the pen to the page.

Dear Thomas,

If you’re reading this, you know it’s been a while since I’ve written. It seems as though I never know what to say and I ramble on and on trying to fill the spaces. I overthink the words and tear holes in the page in an attempt to erase my mistakes, only to toss it out and start over. It’s perfectionism at its finest and, unfortunately, real life isn’t so disposable. I became a perfectionist because it was the only time in my life when I felt in control. On the page, I got to decide what to say and how to say it, right down to the letter. The irony of it all is now I never get anything written. Anxiety cripples my hand every time I hold a pen. It’s become easier to avoid it altogether than to face the mistakes I will inevitably make. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.

It’s spring now. The days are longer and nature’s full array of colors are sprouting back into view. I can see the beauty of it all, but I don’t feel it. At least not in a way that matters, not in a way that allows me to enjoy it. I was told to write about my fears and this is one: I’m afraid I’ll always be like this. I’m afraid this life will pass me by like water through a fractured vase and I’ll be the plucked flower forever thirsty. Maybe someday you’ll figure out how to patch the holes I couldn’t.

So, what’s the future like? Did we stop global warming? Did we save the elephants? Is it sad that I don’t think we did? It’s hard not to be cynical when you’re sitting in the fenced-in yard of a mental hospital talking to yourself, but I digress. All in all, today’s been okay. The constant ache is somewhat numbed; whether it be the lengthening of the days or the meds in my veins, I do not know. Perhaps that’s why I can write to you now.

In truth, I hope you’re somewhere far away from here. Maybe you finally write that book and you’re a famous author travelling the world. Maybe you’re lying on a beach in Hawaii, or walking among the olive groves in Spain, or visiting the Buddhist temples in Nepal. Wherever you are, I hope you’re more than okay. I hope you find someone who loves you and you let them in. I hope you build a big house together, with a secret room behind the bookshelf and a giant window looking out into a blooming garden. I hope you let go of those things you carry and rest a while. I hope you sleep the whole night through. I hope when you wake in the morning and the sun shines upon your skin, you feel it.

Best wishes,

Thomas