flowers

I threw out four bouquets of flowers today. Two of them were larger than my torso, and they made a huge mess on the floor. Dry petals fluttering all over the piano, and brittle leaves on the ground. The one the John Howard Society sent included a strange plant that resembled the tail of a fluffy animal—it shed fuzzy bits of itself all over my clothes. They filled two garbage bags.

It feels final, somehow, to both acknowledge and dispose of the evidence of tragedy. However, they took up a lot of space in the living room, and I never was a girl who cared for flowers. I didn't like the aesthetic of them decomposing there on the piano, next to a pile of mail and the box that holds my mother's ashes.

Massive flower bouquets may make a lovely gesture, but they're hell to clean up.

I don't think I'm the same person I was three weeks ago.