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It’s well past noon, yet I’m still wearing the sweatpants that I slept in and I haven’t even brushed my teeth. If I’m going to bite the bullet and go, I need to get it in gear. After turning off the TV, I swallow the last mouthful of coffee in my cup, wincing as I realize too late that it’s now cold and bitter. Yet one more thing to add to the long list of things I didn’t realize until it was too late.
I tell myself that showering, shaving, and dressing are not necessarily a commitment to anything more than good hygiene. I take my time, and the longest, hottest shower I have had in a while leaves me feeling a bit less apprehensive. I shave slowly and carefully, and spend a few moments thinking about what I’ll wear. I settle on a pair of khakis and a light blue denim shirt, and decide not to wear one of the baseball caps that is part of my standard weekend attire. It’s sunny, but still cool, so I’ll express my allegiance by wearing a baseball jacket instead.
I get into the car, thinking that I should stop at the flower shop near my office before I head out of the city. Despite her love of flowers, red roses were long ago deemed "too traditional" and "unoriginal". Wildflowers and flowers that carry a deep fragrance were preferable. Daisies have always been her favorite ("because you can’t help but smile when you see them"), but I’ve always felt cheap giving them unless I mix in some other flowers. But which ones? It’s been a while since I’ve made such a purchase… I remember what some of the fancier flowers looked like, but I’ll be damned if I remember their names.
I arrive at the florist without a clear idea of what I want, but soon depart with an armload of daisies and yellow roses for her. While the florist was wrapping them, I noticed that they also sell balloons, and I impulsively added one to my purchase. As I return to my car, it bobbles about overhead… a large red helium-filled balloon with the words "Happy Birthday" spelled out in bright yellow letters.
I wind the balloon’s ribbon around the flowers, so that it doesn’t float about in the car as I’m driving. After settling the bundle on the rear seat, I take a moment to mentally plot my course before I start the car and set off.
The flowers are strongly scented. At first it’s a pleasant reminder of the approaching springtime, then suddenly it becomes a bitter aroma that surely exists only in my mind. It annoys me nonetheless; I refuse to allow its harshness to fill me as it has filled the car. I lower the window, admitting some cool air along with the fumes of the freeway, then tune the radio to a heavy metal station. It’s not what I usually listen to, but I’m fairly certain I won’t hear an unfortunately timed ballad or something we danced to on a long-ago summer night. I don’t want to arrive with red-rimmed eyes, even if I suspect that I’ll end up leaving that way.
When I reach my destination in the suburbs, I wonder if this outing might be some perverted form of self-torture or if I’m subconsciously making a vain attempt to address some unfinished business. Or am I, as usual, over-thinking things and simply conducting myself as warranted and expected.
As I park the car, I tell myself that I can still leave… that I’m not necessarily obligated to be here. I believe myself when I think she would surely understand if I chose to spend this time elsewhere… perhaps she might even prefer that.
I look around at the other cars, specifically to see if her parents’ aging Oldsmobile is among them. I owe her mother a phone call, but I keep putting it off because I don’t know what we might end up talking about. I almost sent her mother flowers when it was her own birthday, but I wasn’t sure if there’s a protocol for that kind of thing. I mean, her mom has always been very kind to me, even now, and I do feel bad about keeping my distance from her. It’s nothing personal, it’s just easier that way. If I don’t run into her parents here, maybe I’ll call next week to say hi or something. Or maybe I’ll call tomorrow morning, when I know they’ll be at church and I’ll get the machine. Yeah, it might be easiest to just leave a quick message then.
I walk up the path slowly, admiring the well-kept grass and the stately old elms. Quite a change from the weedy lawn I never seemed to keep up with, and the skinny new trees of vague origin that graced the front yard of our little house on the cul-de-sac. I begin to wonder if I should have purchased a flowering plant instead of the cut flowers I’ve brought her. Too late now, though… too late for lots of things.
I steady myself with several deep breaths, then rake my fingers through my hair in some half-assed effort to make myself more presentable. A meager smile curls my lips as I think of a better time, when I felt her fingers smoothing my hair away from my face as she reminded me that I needed a haircut. It was a gentle admonishment, followed quickly by a full-on lip lock that said "long or short, I’m about to do something to you that will make your hair stand on end and your toes curl". And then she had done just that…
All too soon, I am back in the present moment, now just steps away from her. My throat tightens and my heart begins to pound as I approach, wondering what to do next. What’s "appropriate"? What "makes sense"? None of this, damn it… NONE of this makes sense! I shouldn’t even <span class="underline">be here. SHE shouldn’t be here. She should be the one eating the god-damned whole-grain pretzels and Girl Scout cookies. She should be home with me, in our bed, making love slowly, fucking wildly, or giggling as I play connect-the-freckles with my fingertips, lips, and tongue. She should be in my car, singing along, not entirely on-key, with some cheery tune blaring from the radio. She should be sitting sideways on one end of our couch, her long denim-clad legs extended, with her always-cold feet tucked in beneath my leg, doing the crossword puzzle as I sit on the other end reading the sports section. And always, ALWAYS, chewing on the friggin’ pen… Christ, how that annoyed me! And I usually told her about it, too. If only we had a do-over… there are so many things that I would do differently.
OK. Deep breath. Stay calm. I can deal with all this shit when I get home. Maybe. Not now, though. Not here. Now, for the next short while, it’s time to celebrate her birthday… the day she came into the world. The day that made it possible for her to later come into my world. No matter how briefly. No matter how badly it ended.
I extend my hand and, in my mind, … ever so briefly… it is greeted by the warmth of her own hand, our fingers mingling effortlessly, as they always had. In reality, though, it is the coolness of the granite headstone that I feel, leaning on it as I bend down to lay the flowers on her grave.
As I release my hold on the flowers, the balloon slips from my grasp and hurtles skyward, then slows to a lazy float. I watch it until it becomes no more than a barely discernable speck in the sky. I silently blame the glaring sun for the tears burning my eyes as the balloon disappears from view forever.
"Happy Birthday, sweetheart. I’ve been missing you."
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