A few weeks after you were gone, an acquaintance recognized me in another town in a crowd outside of a concert. They asked, "How are you?" And I plastered on a bright smile and said, "Good!" By the way they instantly frowned at me I knew that they knew and their question had been sincere. Unlike my response.
So I try to answer honestly or at least with something other than “good” when people ask how I am now.
Until more recently, I’d usually say I’m doing “alright.” Occasionally, someone will ask “Just alright?”
Yeah. For now. Just alright.
The day you died flowers flooded in with kind notes of remembrance and I filled your room with ephemeral lilies and evanescent roses and other transient tokens of remembrance.
You loved flowers.
When you had faded and withered and passed away, the vacant space was heavy with the scent of weeping stamens and a dusting of ash-like pollen. It was the brief and final gasp of a stemmed life, and my stomach churned at the smell.
Is this what death smells like?
I couldn’t tell if it was the overpowering, sickly sweet bouquets or if it was actually death… but it made me want to vomit. For a while, I could barely stand being on that end of the house.
This is not what you smelled like, I thought. You smelled like Esteé Lauder, like homemade coconut and almond body butter, your breath smelled like coffee and orange tic tacs most of the time—except when you had really bad breath I would grouse to you about.
Maybe this is what a mental breakdown feels like, I thought, after I tore apart your bedroom in a frenzy looking for the source of the smell and still couldn’t pinpoint its origin.
I ended up laying on that silly giant rug you bought for the living room because you thought I’d like it. I didn’t. I do now, but only because you bought it for me.
And then I screamedandscreamedandscreamedandscreamed until my throat tore and bled and I couldn’t taste or smell anything but the blood in my mouth.
There was silence.
I did not hear you. There was no celestial and comforting word from God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit. There was no text or phone call. No concerned knock at the door. Only silence, as I numbly stared around until my eyes settled on your many neglected and wilting houseplants.
It was easy to picture you tending all of those un-fragranced potted perennials, as you did when you were still vibrant and busy as a bee.
I don’t know why that was the thing that picked me up, but it did. So I watered your darling African violets, your resilient peace lily and sensitive orchid—mustering some small hope that somehow maybe they will survive
I join a Facebook group for houseplant lovers. I read caretaker guides and fertilizer directions fastidiously; once a week with water or a cup every day. It reminds me of all those pill bottles and the hospice booklets that sat needlessly on the kitchen counter for months after you were gone and I’m taken back to when I nursed you and not your flowers.
Don’t die... Please don’t die.
So I speak to the silent flowers like I did to you in those last days when you were beyond response because I read somewhere that it helps.
“You look so pretty today.”
“You’re doing a good job.”
“You’re strong.”
I wept again on the day I washed the last of your clothes and when I threw out your remaining memorial flowers. I cried every day for a long time.
On your birthday, when we spread your ashes, I barely cried. Did I even? I don’t remember.
I have a hard time remembering a lot of things these days.
When does my shift start today? Can I leave flowers there? Did I wear this outfit already this week? What was her favorite flower? When is this bill due? Did she ever tell me? Where did I put it? Did I even bother to ask her?
On Mother’s Day I wondered if anyone would know what your absence meant to us.
Would it be worse if someone asked me how I was doing and I burst into tears?
Would it be worse if they said nothing at all?
Definitely saying nothing at all.
Someone counseled me, “People see the favor and blessing on your life, and don’t realize you’re still in the middle of grieving.”
One thing I’ve learned through counseling is the body will sometimes tell when the heart and the head aren’t doing well. Especially if you ignore when they aren’t.
People are always telling me how stable and how faithful I am… I’m really not.
I’m having a hard time without you.
In the spring, the flowers you planted the year before burst unexpectedly out of the soil and my heart shuddered in my chest.
I was diagnosed as having panic attacks by two doctors in the spring. Sleeping is difficult sometimes. I’ve gone three months without a period and then had one that lasted over two weeks. I’ve fantasized about running away more times than I can say.
I try to count my blessings in between the difficult things, keeping a gratitude journal like you did.
I have a sweet German Shepherd to keep me company. I can listen to the music you hated as loud as I want in the mornings. I’m going on an incredible vacation in December! I had to write an opposition to parole letter without your help for the first time but it got me back into the counseling center, which I needed. I’m thankful for encouragement in the body of Christ. For renewed friendships. For mamas whose hugs last longer than mine. Mamas who bought the ingredients for hot toddies (just like you used to do) when I was sick. Mamas who invited me over for dinner with their families when it was one week until the next payday and I was broke as a joke.
I miss you more than I can say.
But I meant what I said at the last.
“It’s okay. You can go. We’ll be alright.”
I’ll be alright. Someday I’ll be beyond just alright.
