Only flowers

As I open the door, the bell chimes. There is no one inside the shop. The sun is shining on the dozen upon dozen of glass vases, leaving rainbows in its wake. The scent is overwhelming. Hundreds of flowers, devoid of root and drowned in water, each competing for their last breath. So sweet and heavenly that it borders on the line of too sweet and too heavenly. I can feel it inside my nose, and mouth, and throat. A flowery noose.

“Do you need help?” The florist has come from somewhere. I shook my head, no. I try not to think too much about that question and focus on the reason for coming here. I wanted to bring you flowers. But, suddenly there are too many flowers to choose from. All of them beautiful. All of them not enough. Suddenly, I regret coming here. I should have found something special, the last gift, something that would last longer than a few days, something you won’t have to watch die. But the florist is watching me closely, and the clock is ticking, ticking and there is no more time. In the end, I choose not pretty colors and nice petals, but the meaning behind them. I hope they will have the words I couldn’t say back then. Because I have so much left to tell you.

I have so much to tell you about my problems, but I need to be drunker than now.

So, next time?

But there was no next time.

The cicadas are calling for their mates. The sun is scorching the metal frame of the bus stop. The summer is in full bloom today. I am the only one waiting for the bus, it seems, and that is okay. The bench is too hot to sit on so I go stand in the shade. I glance at my watch. It ticks, ticks as the needle moves. The bus should be here any minute now.

The old woman is hurrying across the street. She is dragging a large suitcase behind her. I can see the bus waiting for the traffic light. I hope it would not turn to green until the old woman comes to the bus stop. And she has, panting, and she sat on the hot bench and waited for a few seconds until the bus glides to a stop before me. As the bus driver checks my ticket, I glance at the old woman and she is having a hard time standing up. I hurry to her. Just a few more steps. “Do you need help?” I ask, but she had already grabbed my hand to steady herself. That way, we make out way to the bus, me spontaneously becoming an anchor for that few steps. How come I didn’t see you needed one?

You should come to see my new apartment. I feel so much better living there.

But I need to even take a bus to go there. Maybe next time.

But there was no next time.

One bus tire is making a starching sound when it turns left. The man sitting three seats down from me is talking on the phone. It all distracts me from reading but I need to finish this book until I arrive. It was your favorite book. I imagine you reading each beautiful sentence. Did you feel the same sadness as the one I am feeling now?

The bus runs through green plains stretching as far as I can see. Soon, I’ll come to you. All day, the time runs ahead of me. I still have much of the book left. I close my eyes, closing the book. The goal of finishing it is pointless. It wouldn’t change a thing. And, besides, you once told me how it ends.

After all he’s been through, the main character gets saved at the end, of course. And he lives happily ever after.

But you weren’t. And you didn’t.

There is no sound except the gravel crunching under my feet. I can’t find your name anywhere. I look and I look and still I can’t see it. I started from the entrance and I am now already a halfway through. I know I will find it soon and I want to delay that moment. I look behind me again and I go back a little, and I am relieved again for all other names and surnames. My heart is beating fast, but I must go on. I start forward again. I hold my breath as I peer into the new set of names. I let the air out. Not your name. For a few precious moments, I feel hope rising in my chest. Hope that maybe I got it all wrong. I hurry to the end of the path, glancing at every name. Maybe it has all been a dream. A hallucination of sorts. Maybe you aren’t here after all, but back at your apartment, waiting for me to come. With a bottle of your favorite beer, ready to tell me everything you didn’t tell me. Every dark thing on your mind. And I’d apologize for not finishing the book; I knew you wanted my opinion on it. And you would tell me

It’s okay, you’ll tell me next time.

But there was no next time and there would never be a ‘next time.’

Time stands still. Your name, in gold, carved on the background of grey marble. The year of your birth. Slash. This year. All your life crammed into two numbers. The poem I can’t read because my vision is blurry. Flowers and grave candles as offerings for a better sleep.

Suddenly, there is not a thought in my head. All day, I have been chasing time to come to you and here I am. And you are still not here, not under this rock and dirt. So why are the tears flowing so heavily?

Your grave is on the upper corner of the graveyard. I’m sure you like the position. As I draw my eyes away from the carvings on stone, all I see is a green forest in the distance. It looks peaceful and quiet. I feel the cold wind rustling my clothes. It settles deep inside me and doesn’t let go. Maybe it never will.

As I said, I have so much more left to tell you, but you wouldn’t be able to hear my words no matter how hard I shouted. Words that I should have said back then hold no meaning now. If I had asked you that common question that I hear every time I enter a shop (Do you need help?), the question I say as a reflex to a stranger in need (Do you need help?), maybe I would have understood. If I could turn back time, I would have done it, and much more. But time runs ahead, always. Sometimes, the amends to some mistakes can’t be made. Sometimes, there are no second chances. Sometimes, only the flowers on the grave remain, until they die, too.

Red carnations to say I miss you.

White orchids to say I am sorry.

Pink carnations to say I’ll never forget you.

Yellow chrysanthemums to say Goodbye.