Frangipanis

One spray to start, depending on how many flowers are in the vase, and then another if it doesn’t seem damp enough. Then you wipe each leaf gently, he was always sure to remind me to be gentle, to stroke off the dust that forms over time. He was much better at this process than I ever was, or will ever be, and seemed to find more pleasure in doing the tedious task each week than I find myself being.

Back then, we filled our apartment with flowers of all kinds, much more than the amount here now, no matter the time of year, and opened the sliding door to the balcony to let in the fresh air in the warm hours of the morning. He said the sunlight made the plants happy and I always laughed at him for it, even now when he was proven right, and upturned smiles from them form under bars of sun.

Frangipanis smile the widest as they grow, it was no wonder they were his favorite, and we would set them next to my favorite, tiger lilies. I never told him why I loved them so much but I’m sure he knew anyway, you see, tiger lilies bloom with specks of darker colors spreading on the petals and the more I saw them, the more they reminded me of his freckles, and the more I learned to adore them. 

He was the one who taught me to adore things, actually. Or rather, he taught me everything: how I was never fully dressed without a smile, he loved musicals, how I wasn’t a bad person no matter what they’d say, how it was okay to be misunderstood sometimes, when and where it was best to grow all types of flowers, how to try my hardest even when I didn’t think it was worth it, and most importantly, or most relevant at least, how to deal with losing someone you love more than everything in the universe. 

He used to laugh at me when I would say things like that, talking about how different I was compared to how I was before, with a stone-cold glare as he called it, and how my height no longer seemed frightening as I began smiling more often. 

Adding to the list of things he taught me are the memories of him dancing around the rooms, watering the plants in the morning while I played the piano, listening to his humming of the familiar songs he could never remember the names of, and showing me that life could be worth living.

Life is important, he would say, whenever he taught me how to take care of the plants, and it’s our job to make the flowers just as happy as they make us. I loved him for thing alongside everything he would say, every face he would make, every time he lifted his arms to wrap them around my shoulders, every time he held my hand under the table before my parents knew about us and would constantly tell me to find a girlfriend. 

Oftentimes I find myself wishing I could’ve given him one last thank you for these gestures, the large ones and all the trivial ones in between, or one last I love you, or if I could have known what would have been the last time we did everything. But all of that washes away the second his voice echoes in my head and I can hear him talking to me again. Don’t be sad that it’s over, just be glad that it happened. I'd ask him where he heard that before and he’d shrug, telling me that I should listen to the advice instead of questioning it. 

The grass on our lawn is still equally as green as it was when he was tending to it, I’d like to say this was solely because of my own motivation but really, it was because of the watering habits he had gotten me into. No matter the reason, it's beautiful under the searing natural light and I’m careful not to step on blooming flowers as I make my way to our, or rather, my car. 

The seat belt on the passenger’s side hasn't worked since it got stuck in its socket once and we had to saw it out. We’d meant to fix it some time or another but somehow never got to it and now I can’t find any will to replace it. 

He used to sit there and I would drive, saying he was anxious to screw it up and get in an accident despite being the one who did better on our driver’s test, making me be at the wheel most times. After the seat belt on his side broke, he started using his left hand to pinch at whatever shirt I was wearing for ‘safety purposes’, as he called it. If I focus hard enough and forget long enough, I can almost feel the tug again.

The wind from the two open windows in the car remind me of the second road trip we ever took together where we drove nine hours to absolutely nowhere on a spring day nearly as warm as today. If I remember correctly, he was wearing an odd, lopsided sun hat with snippets of flower buds on their deathbeds attached to the ribbon around the base. He told me it was so they could have one last adventure and scowled as I made fun of him for saying such a thing. 

I guess he taught me how to laugh too. 

Sometimes I subconsciously morph pieces of him to the things I see in life. People, voices, phrases, sounds, illusions, experiences, or anything that has a shred that reminds me of who he was, or even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. He’s there wherever I walk, in everything I see, in every thought that passes, and in every breath I take in. No, that’s not right. He’s not here. It’s just me and everything I thought of him and everything I remember. It makes me wonder what happens to the parts of him no one knew about or the parts that I can’t recall. Maybe they live on as little secrets know one will ever learn, or maybe they disappear as if they never existed just as quickly as he did. I hope it’s the former. 

I brush the thought away, no reason to waste a day as nice as this one to conspiracies such as that, and focus on the feeling of this trail I’m stepping on and how it must be etched into the soles of my feet after I’ve walked it so many times. That, and the sharpness of thorns pressing against malleable skin and how miraculously soft and delicate flower petals feel, even ones that are nearly out of life. 

The bundle in my hands are particularly soft, possibly because of the springtime effect or maybe because of the location they’re heading towards. They’re darkened and nearly falling apart, in a mix of tiger lilies, frangipanis, irises, anemones, and a few other wilting ones that I am unsure of, all unappealing to anyone by him and me. 

I set down the merry bunch in front of me after I crouch on the tufts of perking grass while they present themselves to the headstone, the beautiful headstone now decorated with flowers who have had their last adventure. 

I can feel him smiling even if I can’t see it. I can hear his laugh even if he’s not next to me. 

And I can lift up the flowers and breathe in their sweetness, knowing he’s doing the same.