Death Offering a Flower

It’s the glimmer of hope when all seems lost. Just when nothing feels real and life is coming to a halt death offers up a token for the lonely road. It’s the small offerings that carry larger meaning. It makes the hard-to-come by tears easier to access and the puffy eyes post Mortem seem less pointless. This small gesture carries through every next day when the distance and the yearning for voice, face, and touch in moments appear close to unbearable. There is a hint of something in the air that maybe with time this won’t end up being a final goodbye. Heart is open. And the pain, it keeps coming in waves. The dreaded next day. What more distractions on the plate when loss stares you in the face. If only you cared, if only you knew how much a flower can do for smiles. There is death but it comes with a flower, a flower full of seeds. In the dead of night those seeds are set free to whisper into the night that I would do so much for you to run free by my side. I hate being apart and no word combination can spell out the numbness and the agony felt throughout the day and particularly upon getting up. How I wish I could bargain with death. How I wish I still had some say in your heart, a presence in your head. How can it be that I miss you so damn much and you are sailing away as if this was nothing more than an afternoon spent gallivanting at the beach. Oh how silly I feel....

 

There is to death, offering. It is closure along the way. So much propped up in bony parts. It is all we can muster these days. It’s as much as we wish to come up. All returns, becomes reduced and encapsulated in a gesture, in offering up a flower. A daisy for the taking. A parting token for the road ahead where death never leaves but also never says a peep. A bony hand is hard to grab. Not much meat to work with. Not much warmth to cuddle up to. There is to granola, nuts, and nutritional yeast in a cup. Soul is part of the offering but it is severed and tied to a past which by its own definition bares demise. There is kindness to be found in every callous, cruel gesture. Death has a soft side and she’s holding out on it, maybe because we refuse to witness it. There was never a seat at the table, never more than enjoyment and temporary benefits along the way. Paris-Texas is a lonely road through thorny desiccated fields. Carry the flower in your pocket. Life has detours that death may have to accommodate. He is the unrewarded flower king waiting by the many trenches as we hurl our selves off cliffs hoping to feel alive and renewed by our own intention. The flower is contrarian and it is complement. It can represent repair or be seen as an act of last despair. I am wilted and deflated but here is a piece of what’s left of my feeling.