Pink Roses
This is a vignette written on the greyhound on my way to Toronto this afternoon. Not really sure where it came from or why it's so sad, but I have a feeling there are more to come. This might very well be a series of some sort.
;) Melissa
****
I want to give them to her-dozens of pink roses, perfect individual buds surrounded in a sea of green-I want to give them to her everyday, as a small reminder of how much I love her, and how much I think about her.
She's perfect like the flowers I imagine surprising her with. She's flawless beauty and elegance that never goes out of style. She's flashy and loud sometimes, but never brass or reckless. Angela's moderation and extravagance embodied in one package of leggy perfection.
Still, I can't just walk up to her, take her in my arms and give her the bouquet that I've been imagining. Angela would look at me in shock, and wonder how I could even think we were of the same league. We're not, I confess. But still.
Sometimes it hurts, when I think about her. It hurts to realize how far away from her I am, and how hard it would be to bridge that distance with anything more than friendship.
Those are the times I go out and buy a bouquet of flowers, and perch them on the table behind the sofa, hoping that she'd realize I bought them just for her. She never does.
At night, after everyone's gone to bed, I like to sit on the sofa, and look around the living room, recalling strange memories of the days when we were uncomfortable around each other-when the unease of the situation got the better of us, and we treaded as lightly as we could. And I laugh.
After a couple of days, I throw out the bouquet, still sad that she hadn't realized that they were for her, and I silently promise myself that I will stop punishing myself for being Italian, and from Brooklyn. And a housekeeper.
I can't stand to see the flowers wilt or fade. She won't, I know, ever fade like the flowers have, but yet I still feel obligated to take them away, afraid that the power of suggestion might sway nature from its planned course.
Angela won't ever whither away, or disappear, I tell myself, realizing the delusion involved-the delusion evoked by pink roses in a vase, standing unclaimed against a family portrait.
This is a vignette written on the greyhound on my way to Toronto this afternoon. Not really sure where it came from or why it's so sad, but I have a feeling there are more to come. This might very well be a series of some sort.
;) Melissa
****
I want to give them to her-dozens of pink roses, perfect individual buds surrounded in a sea of green-I want to give them to her everyday, as a small reminder of how much I love her, and how much I think about her.
She's perfect like the flowers I imagine surprising her with. She's flawless beauty and elegance that never goes out of style. She's flashy and loud sometimes, but never brass or reckless. Angela's moderation and extravagance embodied in one package of leggy perfection.
Still, I can't just walk up to her, take her in my arms and give her the bouquet that I've been imagining. Angela would look at me in shock, and wonder how I could even think we were of the same league. We're not, I confess. But still.
Sometimes it hurts, when I think about her. It hurts to realize how far away from her I am, and how hard it would be to bridge that distance with anything more than friendship.
Those are the times I go out and buy a bouquet of flowers, and perch them on the table behind the sofa, hoping that she'd realize I bought them just for her. She never does.
At night, after everyone's gone to bed, I like to sit on the sofa, and look around the living room, recalling strange memories of the days when we were uncomfortable around each other-when the unease of the situation got the better of us, and we treaded as lightly as we could. And I laugh.
After a couple of days, I throw out the bouquet, still sad that she hadn't realized that they were for her, and I silently promise myself that I will stop punishing myself for being Italian, and from Brooklyn. And a housekeeper.
I can't stand to see the flowers wilt or fade. She won't, I know, ever fade like the flowers have, but yet I still feel obligated to take them away, afraid that the power of suggestion might sway nature from its planned course.
Angela won't ever whither away, or disappear, I tell myself, realizing the delusion involved-the delusion evoked by pink roses in a vase, standing unclaimed against a family portrait.