Fresh Flowers & Open Wounds

Pink and yellow and green, with berries and daisies; wide-open blooms and sleepy little half-open buds.

Just the way I like them.

The little girls hug me and tell me all about how they picked out this bouquet just for me. There is so much sweet innocence and untarnished love sitting at this table with me.

My daughter leans against me and squeezes my arm, my mom slices a bright little cake, and my brother and sister-in-law laugh and talk.

It’s so nice.

Almost nice enough to push the pain all the way out of the picture.

But as soon as I saw them, I felt it. And I hate that I felt it. I do everything I can to not feel it anymore.

I fought to stay present and savor the moment before me. To embrace and enjoy the generosity; the effort.

And I did.

But it was waiting for me.

I don’t know what to call it. I’m not sure there is a word for it.

It’s not having a vase for these beautiful flowers.

My vases were in my home. Under my sink. Sitting on my shelves. Perched on my countertops and gracing my mantle. The bright green glass vase. The deep red. The soft yellow crockery with cheerful, faded flowers painted on. The delicate little Japanese bud vase. The black vase with a matching pitcher. The carved wooden vase that held dried flowers. The his and hers vases with crowns and crackled green paint.

I can buy another vase.

But I haven’t yet, because flowers make me cry. And they make my daughter cry. And it’s really about time that we stop crying over flowers, but try as we might, this is a demon that has stubbornly resisted exorcism.

Because flowers were always on the table. My table. They shivered as he hulked over me, screaming and snarling.  They shook as he threw chairs, threw glass, and threw me. They wilted as he called me a cunt, a bitch, a whore.

They saw him rape my limp and lifeless body. They heard him threaten my children. They know what he did, and they knew what he was. I don’t remember, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were fresh flowers on my table the day he strangled me. I wonder if they heard me sputter and moan, “I can’t breathe”.

The last person on earth I want to think about on my birthday is that pathetic criminal.

But I don’t have a fucking vase.

I cut the stems short, ripped open the flower food, and filled a mixing bowl with water. It’s blue, a rich, medium-dark blue. The perfect backdrop for the pink and yellow and green.

I set them on the rickety round table I bought for $10, and I haven’t cried once.

When I look at them, I think of the three little girls who gave me a beautiful gift.

And I also think it’s a damn shame that soon they will wilt and rot and have to be thrown out, all while that son of a bitch gets to live another day.

And then I remind myself that I’d rather be real, and wick, and someday wilt and rot and be thrown out.

Not fake, not wicked, not evil.

In a field of roses, I’m a wildflower, and him? He’s just a dirty old scrap of synthetic silk.