Flowers

I've been thinking of you a lot lately and I feel the longing intensify. It always does when my life is going through a change. I've decided I'm bringing you flowers for Christmas. I have yet to take you flowers. It also made me wonder: 

Why didn't I do that when you were alive?

I don't remember taking you flowers except for the childish bouquets when I was a little girl. The excitement I felt at the treasure I had found, wanting to share it with you. 

Why did I ever stop?

Sometimes, I wonder if I close my eyes enough, wish hard enough, if somehow, through enough wanting, if I could have just one more moment with you. Just . . . one . . . . more. 

I still hate talking to a stone and wondering if you can hear. I still have too many questions and uncertainties of what the after life holds to wonder if you can hear me. Guess it depends on who I talk to on whether you can or not. I'd like to think you do, but a part of me doubts it because if you can hear me, why can't I hear you anymore? What a cruel trick of time, the forgetting. 

It shouldn't be that way. If I had any say in it, your voice would get stronger, your image imprinted of my mind forever, as if you were there.

Maybe the powers that be believe that the forgetting helps with healing. I disagree. The forgetting makes me feel worse. What does it say about a person when they forget? I don't see it as healing, just moving on.

But how much moving on must I do to be "healthy" and yet still hold on to you? 

So I write these letters, hoping to make sense of that which confuses me. 

Sometimes, I wonder if you are here, in your own way, whatever way that is, reading over my shoulder. Such a silly thought for such a logical person. 

You'd be proud of me, I think, at how I am slowly allowing myself to be illogical in my life and yet how completely sane and logical I feel in the middle of it all. 

Yet, here I am, writing you a letter you can never read because a small part of me hopes that you can. That I hope (and would never readily admit) that each keystroke somehow reaches you, wherever you are: Heaven, the ground, somewhere in between. Guess it depends on which pastor I listen to that week, which book I read.

That's the part you'd hate right now, my doubts and wonderings. But I was never like you in that regard: the absolute, unwavering faith. I question too much, everything, always have. But that's the part of me I love the most. 

I've grown into a woman the past few years, some due to natural progression, some due to shoving. I feel the selfishness of who I used to be falling away and being replaced with a love for life and others that I never imagined. I am letting my life be led more by my heart and less by my mind. 

So I'll bring you flowers and try to forgive myself for not doing it when it counted. I guess, right now, it's more for me, than you. But I'm sure you'd understand and love them anyway, if you can even see them. 

My heart aches today; aches too much for all I have to do. What I'd give for a day to grieve, without interruption. My life is too fast paced for that; I make it too fast paced. It's easier that way; except when it's not. Except for the times when the busyness makes me feel trapped. 

I guess it's up to me to create the time; the time to feel and grieve. But opening up that door, the door I finally inched shut. I don't really think I'm ready to open it again. 

So for now, I'll accept the few moments I had to open up to you and well, until we meet again . . . 

I love you. 

Conversations over Coffee

"It's been too long. I'm glad you called."

We order our coffees, settle into the leather chairs, our favorites, in the back corner, away from everyone. Today, two too busy friends make time for each other.

We begin with small talk, easing into the conversation, seeing how far, how deep, the other wants to go.

Kids  . . . . amazing. Planning a 16th birthday party, another child's first steps.

School . . . . I'll be done one day. Feels like forever sometimes.

Work . . . . overtime. Crazy, busy. A new promotion for her. Mine standing in as motivation to finish school faster.

I ask how her husband is. She smiles. They've been in love since grade school. It hasn't dimmed over time. Instead, it's grown stronger. I try to ignore the sharp pain that skims the surface of my heart. I'm happy for her, for them. They've found what most could only hope to.

What I could only hope to . . . . 

She smiles at me again, knowing I'm ready to go deeper. I take a sip on my coffee, she sits back and gets comfortable, I draw my knees under me. My standard pose when I'm ready to talk.

"It's weird, really, to remember that I was ever married, someone's wife. I don't even really remember how that feels. It's almost as if I am reading someone else's story, not my own."

Her and I are so different. She has always been the type to set down roots quickly and stay long enough in one place for them to take hold, keeping her in the places she has chosen to be. I, on the other hand, rarely stay anywhere long enough for anything to take hold. I've always known each place was just temporary.

"Weren't you dating someone? The teacher? He seemed nice." She asks me.

"His wife got in the way. It's amazing how well he thought he was hiding her. But I'm glad I found out so early in, before it went on too long."

She has that smile again. I'm used to it. One of concern, but never pity. From anyone else, I would recoil, feeling their looks of "Oh, poor Michelle. She'll never settle down" But with her, with our history, it's different. It's based on love, concern, a knowing of what she believes I should have. Wanting me to have what she has. I can't blame her, but we're too different.

People always told us we were two peas in a pod, with me fighting to get out and her wanting to stay cocooned where she was comfortable forever. Age and time haven't changed us. If anything, we are further cemented into who we are.

"Do you ever hear from him?" 

This is when I go quiet, like I always do, lost in thought. She knows me too well, knows how to go straight to the center of what I need to let out. No one else can ever do that, but only because I don't let them. It still hurts. Less so, but pain is pain, no matter how small or how intense.

"He calls sometimes. A random text here or there. I ignore it now. Knowing the story too well to read it again. I could never figure him out. But, lately, I wonder if I have and I just don't like what I know, what I knew. It's a game for him. Always has been. I was his favorite team mate. I hate that my heart still loves him, even though he is undeserving. I can't control that, I've learned. It's something beyond me. It happened without my permission and it lingers there. It has to go away one day. I mean, it can't continue on without being fed."

"But don't you feed it, hon? Don't you allow it to be there?"

I pause with her quiet revelation. I don't have an answer.

"Maybe. Yeah, maybe. Maybe I do."

I know our visit is almost over. I have class, she needs to be home to make dinner, see her husband. I'm not ready to stop talking to her, not ready for this time to end.

"I want roots, too, like you have. I always have. You just got lucky the first time, grew something so beautiful. I don't plant roots because I don't want to grow weeds. I don't want to take care of something I don't want. I don't want to grow weeds, I want to grow . . . "

"Orchids. I know, Michelle, you want orchids. You deserve orchids."

I drink the last of my coffee, now cold. I stand up and stretch, hug her. We both know it will be a while before we see each other again.

"We want you to come over for dinner sometime. Call me and we'll set up a time."

I feel as if I didn't get to tell her near enough, yet also feeling as if I said everything I needed to. I realize I do have roots, stretched out wide. Deep, strong roots, spread out to give me the freedom I want while always keeping me rooted where I need to be. I like knowing this about myself.

As I'm leaving the coffee shop, I take out my phone and open my To-Do list.

Buy Orchids.