Flowers for the year

Pink camellias for longing. Pink carnations for remembrance. Heliotrope for devotion. Yarrow for everlasting love. A single rose, deep crimson for mourning, in the centre of it all.

I clutch my mismatched bouquet to my breast, take a deep breath and step through the short wooden gate into the graveyard. The smell of spring and freshly cut grass hangs heavy in the air around me, weighing down on my shoulders and my heart. It’s an unseasonably warm day in late February, the complete opposite of my first visit where the earth was blanketed in snow.

I weave my way through well-tended gravestones, adorned with their own tributes to the dead, my feet dragging with every step. Finally, I stand alone in front of your grave.

“Hey…” The word falls from my lips easily, but it’s difficult to make anything else follow. I remember the bouquet in my hands and place them at the base of your headstone.

“I got this for you. The florist looked at me like I was crazy when I picked it up but that’s why I ordered it special in advance. It means…” I trail off, stall for just a second. “You know what it means.”

I sit down and cross my legs in front of you, groaning as my bones creak. I reach out and lightly caress the petals, focusing on their velvety texture as I rub them between my fingertips. I sigh heavily.

“I’m still not used to you not being around. Someone tells me a joke and I still turn to see if you’re laughing too. When I get home it’s still strange that you’re not there to greet me.

“I got a cat a few months ago. Her name is Chicory. At first I just wanted someone to be there when I shouted ‘hello’ coming through the front door, to help me feel less like a madwoman. I still can’t break that habit, I don’t know if I ever will, but at least there’s someone around to hear it. Sometimes she even meows back.

“She’s nothing like you though. She hates flowers for one thing. I’ve had to store all the nice vases in the cupboard under the sink. I know you hate fake flowers but they’re the only ones I can get that she doesn’t bat off the table. She still does sometimes. I only keep them in the shitty plastic vases we got from distant relatives as wedding gifts. I can’t not have flowers around, so this is the compromise I’ve had to make.

“Your shop has changed. It’s a florist again and I’ve met the old lady who runs it. That’s where I got your flowers from today. She told me about how she remembers your shop and how she felt something was missing when it was closed down. I didn’t tell her who I was or who the flowers were for. It’s been two years, I don’t want to hear anyone’s ‘condolences’ anymore.” Now that I’m talking I find it hard to stop.

“Nothing else has changed, really. Everyone’s still worried about me, but they’ve learned not to ask. I can see it in their eyes though. Hear it when they ask me if I’ve met anyone new. I know that I’m being ridiculous but I can’t. Not yet, maybe not ever. I don’t need anyone else, I’m a complete person on my own and I’m allowed to miss you. You know that I still miss you, right? Even though I only visit once a year?

“I miss your shop, hanging out and eating lunch together surrounded by fresh blooms and potted plants you’d painstakingly taken care of. I miss the smell of flowers constantly hanging around the flat but it feels wrong when you’re not there to arrange them. I’ve vacuum sealed your favourite sweater, to try and keep the scent of you on it a bit longer. Also because Chicory figured out how to get into the wardrobe and I’m starting to forget what things smell like without the scent of cat fur.” I laugh through the tears that have started to flow down my cheeks.

“It’s only been two years, I don’t want to forget what you smell like yet. I don’t want to move on or meet anyone new. I want to talk to you and laugh with you and smell flowers in your shop as you tell me the meaning of each one, even though no one buys flowers for their meanings anymore.” I break off and sob out a heaving breath, shuddering to myself as I try to regain enough composure to continue.

“Chicory sleeps on your side on the bed. It felt wrong at first, someone else sleeping there, but I couldn’t stop her without shutting her out of the room, and it’s easier than sleeping alone. I might be becoming a crazy cat lady and I know you’re laughing at me because I hate those stereotypes, but I can’t help it.”

I sigh sadly, not quite a sob, and lean back on my hands, sniffling. I turn my face towards the warmth of the sun. “It feels like spring today. I opened the windows wide when I saw the weather, just like you used to do, and smelled the air. I could almost hear you telling me how much you love spring, like you did every year. Since you died, it’s become my favourite season too, but I can’t appreciate it like you could. I don’t think anyone can.”

For a while, I simply sit in silence. The graveyard lies next to a road, so I listen to the world passing us by. Everyone seems to be out today, taking picnics and dogs and reluctant children to parks. “If you were here,” I say quietly, “I think we’d be in the shop right now. The doors would be wide open, letting the smell of your flowers flood the street. You’d be telling me about your latest order, who they’re for and what occasion you think they’re celebrating. I’d only be half-listening, just enjoying the sound of your voice, but you wouldn’t mind. You’d keep talking about everything and nothing until I almost fell asleep, and then you’d shut the shop early, just for me, so that we could go home early and watch movies.

“I think I miss the boring parts of our lives the most. Texting you about picking up more milk on your way home. Cleaning the flat together. Looking up insurance policies to make sure we got the best deal,” I laugh wetly. “Doing anything hurts because we always did everything together.”

I lie down on my back and close my eyes against the glare of the sun. Tears slip past my lids and make slow trails down the sides of my face. Laying there, with you, I lose track of the time.

The sun dips behind some clouds and I shiver as the air suddenly turns crisp. Opening my eyes, I’m surprised to find that it’s already early evening. I check my watch and see that it’s just past five o’clock. It’s far cooler now, closer to the typical chill of February. I sit up and collect my thoughts.

“I have to go now.” I stare at my hands, fingers tangled in my lap. “I love you,” I say to your headstone, heart heavy in my chest. Sometimes I feel close enough to reach out and touch you, but you’re always just beyond my reach. You have been for two years now. The flowers at the base of your headstone flutter as the breeze picks up around us. It feels like you’re waving goodbye. “I miss you.”

I heave myself up, standing in front of you and resting my hand on your headstone for a moment. It’s cool under my touch. Saying nothing else, I turn and walk away. Out of the graveyard, not looking back.

I won’t buy flowers for another year.