Delivering Flowers

I check my watch again. It's 4 o'clock. The bus is late. My arms are beginning to grow heavy with the weight of my umbrella and the bouquet of sunflowers. Sunflowers used to be his favorite. I begin to tap my foot with anticipation. The click clack of my heel joining the sound of raindrops on cement. I check my watch again. It is now 4:01. If the bus doesn't get here soon then I won't get back in time for dinner. It's the same thing every month. Wake up, try not to sit and stare at the clock, get dressed, grab the flowers, ride the bus, deliver the flowers, try to say something, fail, ride the bus home, cry, and eat your dinner alone. I've done this on the first Saturday of every month for almost a year now. I squint towards the end of the street, thinking that if I look hard enough, the bus will magically appear. I roll my eyes and move my gaze to my feet. My sensible black heels speckled with glossy rain drops. Maybe this was a sign. A sign that I shouldn't visit him today. Everyone tells me I should move on. "He's not coming back," they say. Sometimes it's, "He would want you to move on with your life." My therapist agrees. She says that a part of the healing process is moving on, yet I still visit his lifeless body in his white-washed tomb on the first Saturday of every month. Now, my tears begin to join the raindrops on cement.

Finally, the bus rounds the corner and I brush the tears from my face. If I start crying now, the next two hours will be a lot harder than they already are. The breaks scream as the bus slows to a stop and the doors open with a creak. I step onto the bus after shaking the rain from my umbrella and when I look up I'm not greeted by the face of the older gentleman who usually drives this rout. Instead I see a young man sitting in the driver's seat. He noticed the puzzled look on my face and asked if I knew how to use my buss pass. I nodded my head and swiped my card through the slot. The machine responded with a short beep and a green light. I took my usual seat. Two rows back, right side, by the window. I take another moment to examine the young man driving the bus. His uniform is a bit loose and his shirt isn't tucked in. I'd say he's in his early twenties and judging by the map of the bus routes spread out on the dash in front of him, I'd say it's his first day. I noticed him eyeing me in the rear-view mirror before I returned my attention to the flowers in my lap. He used to say that sunflowers were his favorite because they reminded him of the first day we met.

I was in the shop organizing some lilies into a white vase. My mother had left for lunch, so it would be just me and the flowers for the next hour or so. I loved making arrangements and displays. Just admiring the flowers and their beauty. I loved flowers more than most people. I would get lost in the feeling of their petals and the scent of their nectar. I had been so focused on the lilies that I didn't hear the bells jingle when he opened the door. I didn't hear his footsteps approaching the counter. I didn't notice him until he stopped in front of the counter and chuckled. I had been so embarrassed that my cheeks flushed bright red and I stuttered a bit when I asked if I could help him. When I looked at him, I noticed his smile right away. He was a dashing young man, but the smile he wore was genuine. His smile told me that he was a kind and trustworthy man. He said he was looking for a bouquet of flowers for a beautiful girl. He wanted to let her know how lovely she was, inside and out. I started towards the cooler. I knew just the bouquet to give him. I began to reach back past the roses when he commented on how he agreed that roses were the perfect choice. That's when I had wrapped my hand around a bouquet of sunflowers. I turned around grinning at my own cleverness. He looked at me a bit baffled. "Sunflowers?" he asked.

I nodded my head and told him why they were better than roses, "Every girl expects roses. While roses are beautiful, they're very delicate flowers. Now sunflowers, while beautiful, stand tall and have a strong backbone. Exactly the characteristics of someone who is lovely inside and out." He began to chuckle and dug out his wallet. He asked how much for the flowers and I told him the price. He laid a few bills on the table. I was about to take the money when he asked if we had any ribbon to tie a note to the flowers. I said it was in the back and that I'd be back in just a moment. While I was digging through boxes looking for the perfect color to compliment the sunflowers I heard the bells jingle. I emerged from the back room to find that he had vanished. However, he left his flowers, a few crinkled bills, and a note addressed to "The lovely girl in the flower shop."

I kept that note close to my heart. Time was beginning to take its toll on the old paper. What was once white and crisp was now yellowing and fragile. Little did I know that day would mark the beginning of a great love story. One I thought would last a lifetime. I remind myself that God gave us twenty-five years of wedded bliss before he was so cruelly plucked away from me. Another tear escapes and begins its descent. I quickly wipe it away with my sleeve. I look at those flowers and pray that today will be the day. An automated voice comes over the speakers announcing that my stop is next. I begin muttering my Hail Maries. Just five more minutes before I have to get off of this bus and face my very own circle of hell. I glance around at the people occupying the other seats. The young bus driver, so much life ahead of him. A mother to my left, cradling her sleeping boy. A teenager listening to her iPod. A man dressed to impress in a navy suit. All of these people were so full of life. They had so much joy ahead of them. I envied them. Their ability to feel joy, while the greatest joy of my life had been stolen from me. It just wasn't fair.

Two minutes left. I gathered my things and took a deep breath to regain my composure. In and out, emptying my mind of any negative thoughts with each exhalation. This was a trick my therapist had taught me. I liked to think that it actually worked, but I'm pretty sure it just has something to do with the placebo effect. My next exhalation was greeted by the sound of those breaks. That high-pitched squeal echoed through my brain. It was time. I exited the bus, leaving those people behind. The next bus I got on would be driven by a large, cranky woman and carry new people to envy. I walked until I found him. It felt like hours and minutes all at the same time. For a second, I thought about turning around. Leaving and never coming back. Maybe I should just move on. No. How could I even think that? If the roles were reversed, he would never give up on me. Even if I have to come here every day until the day I die… I will. I took a breath, pulled the sunflowers to my chest, and opened the door. A nurse was in the room adjusting his feeding tube. She smiled when she saw me. I asked her how he was doing, and she told me that he was doing just fine. Not getting any worse, but there was no progress either. He was sitting up in bed, staring at me with glazed eyes. Every time he blinked, I felt a jolt of hope that he would finally break out of this trance. A bit of drool slipped out of the corner of his mouth and I quickly wiped it away with a tissue. The nurse handed me a vase for the flowers and left the room. I sat down on the bed and clutched his hand. I stared into his eyes, searching for any sign of the man I love inside of this fleshy tomb. As per usual, I came up empty-handed and collapsed into his lap. I continued sobbing for the next fifteen minutes.

There was a knock at the door. I tried to regain whatever composure I had left and told whoever it was to come in. The door opened and closed. Soft footsteps approached me from behind and I felt a warm, delicate hand rest on my shoulder. I looked up and discovered that it was the doctor who had taken over his case this year. She didn't say anything, just gazed at my husband with her kind eyes and small smile. The furrow in her brow told me there was something wrong. I took his hand and turned it over in mine. His skin had become translucent and I could see the labyrinth of veins crisscrossing just below the surface. I asked the doctor if there was any hope, and that's when she told me what she was here to talk about. She wanted to talk about my husband's future. She explained that every day he doesn't show signs of improvement, the chances of him making any sort of recovery grow smaller. She told me the different options I had in terms of care. I told her I would have to sleep on it and that I would call her sometime tomorrow, but for now, I have to catch the bus.