Flowers
I
Just like every other day you come to the field with the small white patches. Some barren, some adorned. And you place the fresh flowers in the small vase. The red and yellow tulips are a colourful spot in the green.
Normally it is quiet, but not today, several cars pull up on the road farther up the soft slope. Only when they stop not far off, you lift your head. It hasn't been loud, nevertheless it has pulled you from your inner monolog with the one you miss.
Quietly you watch the people getting out of the cars. One group consists of three women, closely followed by two men. There is only a small distance between them as they pass you and come to a stop not too far away from where you are. It is strange, you think. You have been so into your own world that you hadn't seen the freshly excavated grave a few rows further down the field.
You are already about to lower your head again when you see a sole figure climbing out of a battered pickup. But the car isn't the oddest thing, it is the cap the man wears. It doesn't go with the black suit. And the man seems not to go with the suit either - but what goes with that colour for that occasion anyway.
Just as you want to avert your eyes, he turns his head and despite the distance you know that he is looking at you. You know that he has seen you looking at him. There is no way out with dignity but to slightly nod at him. Only then you turn your back to him, the group and their last goodbyes. You wouldn't have wanted it any differently.
You give yourself the time to slip back into the concentration which you need for your silent words. And when you are done, you pick up the wilted daffodils, arrange the fresh flowers to your liking, before you finish your visit as every time with a 'till next time, papa', before you make your way back up to the quiet road where the cars are parked.
From up there you look back, just like always, a last glance to end your visit. From up there you can see the group of mourners. Again there is the same grouping, the women, the men, the man. Again you realize that the man's eyes are on you when he looks up a moment later.
II
It has been busy days, almost two weeks in fact, so busy that you haven't had any time for your visits. And it puts you on edge. No matter how much the visits sadden you, they also soothe you, give you strength for the days between your visits.
The tulips are a more than sad sight and not even the bright spring sun can hide this fact. You feel slightly ashamed that so many days have passed since your last visit and quickly you exchange the flowers. You have decided on carnations, white with a red core.
Having arranged the flowers you straighten to see a lone figure standing in the distance. His head is bowed and you barely make out that his hands are worrying something.
Seeing other mourners always sends a pinch to your guts and you are not sure what is stronger, the feeling of your own loss or the empathy you feel for theirs. Whatever it is, it blurries your sight, wettens your cheeks, and wrenches a sob from your throat.
Why does there have to be loss? You know the answer. This is just earth, not a kind of paradise. But even with this knowledge the feeling of being left behind doesn't lessen.
Lowering your gaze to the stone before you is counterproductive. It just makes you tear up more. Blindly you reach into your pocket looking for a tissue and you clean your nose.
Gravity seems to become heavier and you sink down on your knees. The short grass, warmed by a day full of sun, welcomes you.
With your head lowered and your hands in your lap, the wilted flowers grasped tightly in your fist, time seems to still for you. There's only you, the slab of stone before you, and the feeling of loss and abandonment.
When the tears finally dry the late afternoon has turned into an early evening - till next time, papa
III
The carnations wilted, the peonies dried, the roses lost their petals. Each dried bunch is replaced by a fresh one - daisies, freesias, calla lilies, marigolds, forget me nots, sunflowers, dahlias, asters as time passes. The year draws on, almost unnoticed by you. Just the display at the flower shop and your choice of bouquets remind you that time draws on. That and the periodical glimpse of the man in the worn clothes, t-shirt, button downs, jackets they all seem well worn, and the frayed cap with some logo on it - his battered truck is hard to miss.
Same as you, he seems to have a certain rhythm when it comes to his visits. Contrary to you, he seems to follow the same procedure every time. You cannot but not notice. It's always the same. He leaves his truck, pulls off his cap, walks up to his place of mourning, stands there with his head lowered while he worries the cap in his hands and shoving the cap back on his head leaves after some time. It's always the same day of the month. The only thing that changes is the time. Sometimes he is already there when you arrive and sometimes you see his truck leaving. But then you realise that it is not him who doesn't stick to a certain time, it is you.
It is one of the days when you arrive later than you normally do. You know because his truck is already there and a quick glance at your watch tells you the same.
There is only one space left. The one right next to his truck which dwarves your car. Carefully you squeeze into the lot and park. It is a bit tight and you have to squeeze yourself and the fresh bunch of sunflowers out of the car. It is a juggle as you lock your old vehicle. When you reach the top of the slope you see him already standing in his usual place.
It is kind of soothing to know that there is someone else there, that someone else finds solace in the solitude of the graveyard. It is a warm feeling that envelops you as you close yourself to the outside and turn towards your inner monologue. It is normal things, petty things you think about as you tell the one who is no longer there about your daily life, your chores and troubles. But it helps you to balance yourself between dwelling in sorry and rushing on with life.
And then it is there. Maybe you should have heeded the dark clouds, but you haven't. And thus you get startled as the first heavy and cold drops hit you. They are fat drops and instantly soak through the jacket that you wear against the autumn wind that is getting quite cold by now. It takes you a few moments to realise that this will be a real downpour before you start rushing to your car. Just on top of the slope you cast a quick glance back. It has become a kind of ritual. Both to mumble quiet words of goodbye and, when the man in the cap was there, to catch a last glimpse of him, to see if he was still there, standing like a statue.
And like a statue he was, right in the middle of the downpour. Right there he stood standing as if he wasn't affected at all although heavy drops already rolled off his cap. He is getting totally soaked, you think as you shiver against the cold wetness on your skin. You hurry on, almost slipping on the wet grass while you start fumbling around in your backpack, desperately looking for your car keys. Having them already in your hands when you reach the car would save you some seconds - as if that would really make a difference as drenched as you already are.
Your clothes cling to your skin, the windows of the car fog immediately, you start the car and turn on the ventilation system. The old leather cloth is damp when you are done with the windscreen, but you see enough to drive safely home. You feel cold and numb when you finally reach your home and the only thing on your mind is a hot shower.
IV
When you finally leave the shower the mirror is fogged, steam wavers in the air. Instead of the steady stream of hot water you can now hear the rain pounding against the small window. Too lazy to use the dryer you wrap a smaller towel around your head and slip into the cozy bathrobe. The only plan you have is relaxing on the couch with a book, reading and listening to the rain until your eyes drop close. But life has a different plan.
You have just placed your drink on the small table next to the couch as the doorbell rings. You aren't expecting anyone and a quick look at your watch tells you that it is too late for an unannounced social visit. Going to the door's intercom you pull the bathrobe close. When you press the com and ask who's there you mostly get a static scratching for an answer. Despite the many complaints - in this house you weren't the only one who had this problem - nothing has been done about it, yet. With a sigh you press the door opener and with the chain in place you open your own door only an inch. Just enough to peek out.
The steps you hear are hesitant, lingering on the ground floor before they slowly ascend the stairs. Curiosity and tenseness make your heart pump faster as you worry your lower lip with your teeth. You don't recognize the steps and strain your brain - who on earth is coming up the stairs?
When you hear the steps falter again, you call out, wanting to know who it is and if you can help them. The voice that answers is unknown to you. It is dark and slightly raspy, it sounds insecure.
"Well, yes I'm looking for someone."
When you hear your name you are more than astonished. And then you see the face of the man coming up the stairs. Dark hair, curling behind his ears and at his neck with dampness, dark eyes that look at you questioningly, strong nose and chin, a patchy scruff worth several days adorning it.
In suspicion you squint your eyes and you take your time to let your gaze rake along his whole body. You stop mid-way, as your brain slowly puts together what it sees the man is holding.
A cap and a wallet, both known to you, one more vaguely than the other.
The dark colour of the worn leather is one you know. You know every dent and fold, every little scar. You know its very contents. It is the one you inherited, the one you use ever since that fateful day.
The worn cap is like any other, only slightly more familiar is the shape of the logo - Standard Oil.
Your eyes widen and your eyes snap back up, meeting his gaze - dark eyes that look at you nervously.
"I found this. In the parking lot. Next to my truck. - I - I didn't want to - I thought you'd - I didn't take anything, just looked for an ID - an address. I swear. - You can check."
You don't look, at least not at the wallet, as you slowly nod. Your brain is too busy connecting the man standing so close in front of you with the figure you regularly see at the graveyard.
You don't miss when he blinks quickly as a drop makes its way down from his wet curls to his brow and lower to his dark lashes.
"You are the one from the graveyard. The one with the old truck."
The corners of his mouth twitch in a skittish grin full of self-consciousness.
"Yeah. And you are the one with the flowers."
Your eyes widen at his perception for your liking of flowers and he almost chokes on the last syllable.
"I mean - Sorry, this came off creepy. It's not like - it's just yours are the only ones in that field besides …"
As he trails off you nod slowly. Although you had never seen him bring any, there were always flowers adorning the grave he is visiting.
"A relative?"
A surge of bravery - or did your brain just decide to press the pause button while your mouth is on fast forward - makes you voice what you have been wondering about all the last weeks and months.
"No. A - comrade - and friend."
He pauses and his eyes shift down to your hands still clutching the wallet before they lift again. But before you can express your condolences his question comes much quieter, a soft murmur in his low baritone.
"And you?"
It is one thing visiting regularly, telling yourself that it is getting better with each passing week. It is one thing finding yourself leaving the green field less and less in tears, more and more composed, with only a dull throb of sadness. It is one thing to avoid situations that tingle with memories and it is one thing to force your thoughts in a different direction when a memory brings tears to your eyes.
But it is something completely different being addressed about it, having to explain what you are doing there, who you are paying your respect to. It is ripping open what you so desperately try to conceal and push away by work.
You inhale sharply and your tongue presses against the roof of your mouth as your jaws clench hurtingly. Swallowing against the tightening feeling in your throat you feel helpless at the warm and burning sensation that makes your sight blurry.
"Relative. - My father."
He is quicker in his response, mumbling words of condolences to which you can only nod your thanks. You lower your head to hide the single tears that roll down your cheeks, but he sees them.
"Oh shit - I'm sorry! I didn't mean to … "
His quick inhale is suddenly loud in your ears and you feel the heat of embarrassment crawl up your neck. Closing your eyes you wish for the floor to open up and swallow you.
So far you have been able to keep composed, whether it be at home when you are alone or at work. Even there not all people know about your loss. And from those who know you keep your distance, not wanting to see the empathy in their eyes, this would rattle the wall you have carefully erected. And losing your composure is something you have never felt comfortable with, especially not in company.
It is hard to bring your breathing under control. But it is essential to bring your emotions under control. You don't want to lose what is left of it, not in front of this stranger. Your lips have become thin lines as you press them together. You suck the insides of your cheeks and start biting on the flesh - hard, until you taste metal. You welcome the pain - anything to overlay the pain that eats you from inside out, anything to numb the pain that has you shaking.
And then there is warmth engulfing your wrists where the bathrobe doesn't cover your forearms anymore. Not only warmth - heat is searing into your skin where his hands touch you. Your eyes lock on the sight of his large hands cradling your arms - not grasping, just cupping. They are stabilising your shaking hands and if you weren't clutching so tightly onto the wallet you might have dropped it a while ago.
But his touch doesn't help against the shaking or its slow spreading all over you body - what is it that you come undone like this in the presence of this stranger. It isn't anything he says, because he isn't saying anything. But it is the minuscule thing he does. The tip of his fingers press softly against your skin, the insides of your wrists and it occurs to you that he must be able to feel your racing pulse - his fingertips deliberately feel for your pulse.
You feel the racing thumping of your heart pounding and ricocheting between your wrists and his fingers.
"Just breathe."
The low baritone murmuring soothing words pulls you from your frozen state. But when you lift your eyes again you are just able to stare into his sombre eyes like a deer caught in the headlights.
"It's easy. Just in and out."
The yelp that is pulled from your throat when you suck your breath in a gasp is undignified. In horror your eyes widen at what you see in his eyes. If only it were only empathy, but there is a sadness in them that equals yours. Yet, he finds words in an attempt to calm you. They don't help and you know that he can see it. He can see how your eyes fill with tears, he can see how your lips quiver.
Panic is the only explanation for how you react. Panic that you will lose it altogether, that your legs will give in, that the sluices will break completely.
Tearing away from his loose grasp you flee behind the doorstep and slam the door shut in his face before the choked cry that is working up its way from your chest can find its way to your vocal cords.
V
The door doesn't give you enough support to keep you upright and so slide slowly down with your spine pressing against it. Before you reach the floor heaving sobs have you wrecked. Before long hiccuping wails fill the short hallway of your flat.
You haven't done this before. You hadn't had the time to let loose. You hadn't had the courage to give in to the weakness in you.
All time is lost to you as you plunge headfirst into the dark pool of mourning. All the repressed feelings, the stress, the anxiety, the loneliness break forth. A constant rush of hot tears stream down your cheeks as you stare unseeingly at the ceiling while you bump your head against the door. Willing the physical ache to make the emotional go away.
"Shit!"
The first tentative knocks are lost beneath the noise you make.
"Fuck! Hey! You okay in there? Shall I get someone for you?"
The concern in his voice tears even more at you. Pain and anger interlace as you lash out between your wails.
"Go away! Leave me alone! - Just leave me like he did, like everyone does."
Your voice has given out leaving just a hoarse whisper and as soon as the words leave your mouth you hope that he hasn't heard them.
"Hey, I - I just want to help."
You fight against yourself to gain back some semblance of control. But the more you try the more you feel it slip away, driving you into more anguish. Not even your best friends have seen you like this - ever. And now this happens in front of a stranger.
"You know, sometimes we just need to get help from outside."
"As if -!"
"I know, coz I had to get help too."
You can't believe that he is still there. Talking about getting help. That there is help for any problem. You don't have a problem, not one anyone could help you with anyway.
"My friends helped me. Made me join the AN group. Can I call a friend for you?"
You continue to hack out your sobs as his words slowly register. The realisation of how private an information he had just shared with you slowly stills you.
"I don't want anyone to see."
"They could call."
"Or hear."
"Why? To keep pretence?"
You nod before you realise that he can't see you, only then you admit meekly his keen observation. He doesn't know you at all, and yet he has picked up on your charade. Well, it is not like you have made it extra difficult for him with the behaviour you have displayed.
"Well, if you don't want to talk to someone you know. We could - I mean I can listen, too."
VI
You don't know what makes you shuffle to the side after a while and reach up to the door's handle. Your hand only lingers for a short while before it presses down. The door swings open a few inches with the pressure that had weighted against it. But nothing else happens
Unsure you look up just to be met with emptiness. Only a soft huff much closer to your sitting level has you lower your gaze. And there is the stranger who had brought you your father's - your wallet.
Same as you, he is sitting on the floor. His head is tilted towards you and for a moment a soft smile plays on his lips. Even though his face mirrors his concern, there is also curiosity. It all makes you only aware of your state of disarray and you quickly turn your head away.
He keeps waiting until you move further along the wall, making room for him. If you had watched you might have grinned at how small he tries to make himself to fit through the opening of the door, at how he awkwardly shuffles around to close it and to sit with his back against it, carefully leaving space between you two.
He keeps waiting until your muscles relax, until you uncoil and your rigid posture becomes more relaxed. Until you start talking of your own volition, until only the quiet flow of tears subsides. Only then he reaches into his pockets to pull out a handkerchief, only then inches somewhat closer to hand it to you.
And he keeps waiting until you have calmed down and finished staring off into the distance.
"Better?"
Silently you nod. Only then he struggles up with groan.
"Sorry. Legs are a bit numb."
You want to hurry out an excuse, but he waves off and holds out his hand to help you up. Your legs prickle with the renewed circulation and you understand why he had complained.
"Try to get some sleep. I will find my way out myself."
VII
You are tired and completely worn out, drained even. So you numbly watch him waving goodbye and closing the door behind himself. You still feel like you are floating in some dream as you stumble to the bedroom and drop yourself unceremoniously on the bed.
And when you wake hours later it still feels unrealistic. But something has left, the massive burden that had threatened to drown you. You are still subdued and quiet. Smiling or even laughing still doesn't come easy to you, but life is less suffocating.
It takes you longer than before to return to the graveyard, to pay your visit. And you feel bad, knowing that the last bunch of flowers must have wilted long ago. With a bunch of bicolour mums you walk up the slope and prepare yourself for a sad sight.
You stop short at the sight of white roses which do not look that fresh but aren't decayed either.
"I don't know if it's okay. But the woman at the flower shop said that I can't go wrong with them."
Startled you turn. He is there, the man with the cap who had brought you your wallet and listened to you wailing. He is standing just behind you and tries to hide a bunch of flowers behind his back - quite unsuccessfully.
Your eyes dart from his flowers to his face, to your flowers and back to his face.
"Thank you. That is very considerate."
"No problem. It's my pleasure. By the way, I'm Frankie, Frankie Morales."