I Brought Her Flowers by Essel Pratt

I brought her flowers. Yellow carnations, just like the ones that I gave her on our first date.  I remember it like it was yesterday; she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She still is. I had no idea what kind of flowers she liked back then; I was sort of clueless when it came to girls.  The man at the corner dime store said all women like yellow carnations, so I took his word for it.  He was right, she loved them.  For the last 50 years, I’d give her yellow carnations on our anniversary, her birthday, and anytime she was feeling down.  They always seemed to pick her up, or at least put on a fake smile for a bit.  Yellow carnations seem to be the perfect gift for today.

I’m nervous, just like that first date so many years ago.  I’m wearing my best suit, the one she says made me look like a young stallion.  I know it doesn’t, but her words are my yellow carnation. The walk to the front door is one of the longest I’ve ever traversed.  The world around me has disappeared as I place one step in front of the other, ever so slowly as I clear my head and try to focus. There is familiarity in some of the faces that I pass by, those that disobey my determined pace, as they stop to shake my hand.  I am too focused to be courteous to their salutations.  I am here to be with my wife, this is her day, and I plan on focusing all of my attention only on her.

The steps leading to the door are steep, it takes me some time to reach the top as I fight through the arthritic assault that rattles my knees.  The railing is a bit higher than I remember, so I have to contort my torso in a manner that I have not been able to do in a long time just to manage my own ascension.  That’s okay though, she is worth every ounce of soreness I might feel tomorrow.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the church; never was much of a believer in religion and all the mumbo jumbo that goes along with it.  But she has come here every Saturday evening and Sunday morning since before her and I were even together.  It feels weird being here, standing in front of the towering oak doors. They make me more nervous, more so than when I asked her out on the second date. My old heart seems to be working overtime as I grasp the cold brass knob and pull.  It is heavy and I strain to allow entry into her sanctuary.  For 50 years I’ve only stepped in here once, on our wedding day, but today is her day and I am adamant to be at her side.

Someone from within pushes the door open.  The cool air rushes out and tickles the goose bumps upon my arm, sending shivers down my spine.  It is as though God, whoever he or she may be, is reaching out a welcome hand.  It is the same feeling my wife has tried to convince me that she feels each time she enters.  It is the reason why she spends so much time here, it is why she chooses to worship here.

Ornate façade mimics the opulence worthy of a king, yet the humble murmurs inside foretell acceptance despite my lack of belief. I meander toward the back, near the holy water basin, catching my breath and composing myself after the long walk and ascension of the stairs.  I want to look and feel my best when I approach her, when she realizes that I finally made my way into the house of her lord. To be at her side.  To see what she experienced on the nights I played poker with the guys or had a beer or two at the corner bar.  We both have our escapes.  Then we come home to each other, refreshed and relaxed, and start our week anew. It is our recipe for a happy marriage.  That is why we have lasted so long. It is only fair I do this for her.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.  I hear the whispers of those around me. I can’t tell what they are saying, but I feel their gaze upon me as their intermingled vocalizations wrap around my flesh, like a welcoming hug. It doesn’t make me feel more comfortable and I know I must go forth, to her side, before someone chooses to approach me and talk.  I am here for my dear love, no one else.

Flowers in hand, my lazy stride takes me onward down the center aisle.  More whispers mingle in the silence. Their faces are blurred, like those outside, the dim light above helps to block them out.  I don’t know what to expect when I stop at her side and place the flowers in her hands.  I imagine she will be happy that I am here, I know she will be.  Her happiness is my one life goal.  Without her happiness, I am nothing.  Without her, I am but a lost soul wandering an ocean of blackness.  She has become one in my heart and that is why I’m here.

She is near the front, all alone.  The candles before her cast an angelic glow upon her face. My heart skips a beat as I lay my eyes on her and a lump gathers in my throat. Her hair is pulled back and the makeup upon her face is just enough to accentuate her natural beauty. She is absolutely ravishing in the navy-blue dress.  It is modest, just as she prefers, but gives a sense of purpose and accomplishment to her look.  She is the most beautiful creature on this Earth.

She looks tired.  I am not sure if she notices me at her side, so I reach out and place the flowers in her hands.  The cooled air has placed a chill upon her flesh.  I wrap my shaky hands around hers, the flower stems interlocked between our fingers, their fragrance wafting through the air. In age, she has become frail, although feisty as the day we met, maybe even more so. Keeping her warm is a never-ending battle most days.  Today is no exception.

As I hold her, I draw my head down and place a tender kiss upon her forehead.  The familiar scent of her makeup gathers upon my lips.  I used to despise the taste it left behind, but over  time, it has become a delicacy of sorts. A lasting reminder that she is by my side, even when we are apart.  She never splurges, except for the makeup she puts upon her face.  Nothing but the best for my girl.

Standing there, by her side, I feel a hand upon my shoulder.  It is the pastor, a man I have met at a few events here and there.  He wants me to take a seat so the ceremony can begin.  I don’t want to sit. Sitting means I must remain through the whole ceremony, despite my unease and anxiety summoning in my chest. He is politely insistent though. So, I will do it for my dear love.  Before sitting, though, I lean over and plant one final kiss upon her rosy pink lips.  One final peck as I whisper one final I love you.

With hesitance, I back away from the coffin, walking backwards to my seat.  I don’t want anyone to see the tears in my eyes as I let the love in my heart melt away my soul.  Today I say goodbye to the love of my life.  Not with the pomp and circumstance she deserves, not with a morbid farewell.  Instead, for the last time, I brought her flowers.