The dead scent of flowers

The seasons advanced from snow topped gravestones and ice glazed stone angels to sun kissed grass growing to new-born birds’ concerto, new souls came and went, tears nourished and softened the hard ground, and fresh dead were interred into the Earth, but me, I never changed. Whether rain or shine, wind or snow, every day, every single one, I make the same short journey to the bench, what I think of as mine, the one with the flaking black paint, under the great oak tree, in the centre of the cemetery where I can oversee the play unfolding and act before it’s too late.

I have a job; it's necessary, crucial, imperative... important.

Roses, daisies, tulips, so bright, alive, miniature coloured suns placed on graves with heart, soul and love. Daffodils, freesias, lilies; yellows, reds and bright, perfect whites given by friends, family and lovers.

I lean my walking stick against the metal frame and close my eyes. If the sun’s awake it explores my face with a warm fingertip, the rain washes away unnecessary thought, cold banishes lethargy, wind whispers sweet nothings and best of all, I immerse myself in one of life’s greatest gifts, the blossoms’ fragrance.

Because the flora deserves, no, demands, such attention. That graveyard, yes, it’s a place of death, but also one of remembrance, contemplation, of love and heart, that you should visit often, embrace and smile and laugh. After all life would be empty, cold without it’s opposite. And nothing, not the manicured trees, closely shaven grass, the leaves which flew with a playful gust, nothing, symbolised that than the spirit of a humble flower.

But who looks out for those who have fallen from grace?

It is fair, right or just that those who have given their youth, their colour, vigour and vitality only to be cast aside to the rubbish heap when the inevitable occurs?

Every day I come, sit and listen; seconds, minutes, hours, it doesn’t matter. I wait, patiently, chat nonchalantly to passers-by on the weather, sport, music, books, anything until I hear a cry for aid. Because they know, they always know when their time is nearing an end.

Along the rows of polished granite all standing to attention my feet move, as swift as my old creaking joints allow, with urgency, with desire; always, they knew their destination. Wonderful wife, beloved brother, special sister and countless others; the words became a blur and instead my eyes noticed every flower, carnations, lilacs and birds of paradise, so bright, so proud…

Below the wings of a stone angel, I found them. Once miniature pick roses then beaten warriors, alone, cold, few vibrant petals left clinging to the tip of withered stems and yet, still giving hope, peace, sweet aroma,  enchantment, everything they had. Beautiful. After all they had been through, cut down, left to suffer a slow death while entertaining, I admired nothing more.

Gently, careful not to cause more harm, I took them to my arms, my heart, and I left that place, their home. I stared the laboursome walk back to the beat of my stick, reassuring all the while, promising better, acceptance of what they were, gods of nature, to be cherished and revered and to live on with another flower.

I shut the front door behind us and all was quiet. Home, familiar, safe, away from the elements. There was a gloom in the hallway, only a slither on sunlight invaded the space and in it, dust motes sparkled, danced in the warmth. “Mary, I’m home,” I called and stumbled to the stairs. “I’ve got you a surprise!” I added and turned my head, strained my ears.

There came no reply.

My heart beat faster.

I took a step up the stairs, teetered on the edge of a cliff.

“Mary?”

A cold sweat appeared, coated my neck and forehead with a layer of anxiety.

At the top of the stairs, I saw the bedroom door closed. I attempted to lick my lips but all moisture had deserted me. The door, I always left it crack open a crack. What if she’d shouted for help, tried to find me, thought I’d abandoned her?

My hand shook on the door handle. Nightmares ran through my mind, but still I pushed and it gave way with a whine. I had to know she was okay, give her the give of beautiful dead roses, because Mary, my wonderful wife of fifty years had always been the best of show, the reddest rose, tallest sunflower.

Inside the darkness covered all, coated everything alike with a thick black tar. The dead scent of flowers, strong and fragrant and earthy and sweet and pungent hit me, but my heart lifted. There was a shape in the gloom. I turned on a light, showered everything in brilliant luminesce and my soul soared high with the moon. There she was, my angel, safe and sound in bed with the covers tucked safely up to her dainty chin.

“Darling, look what I’ve brought you,” I said and placed the roses in a vase next to all the others, so many, consuming the tops of shelves and drawers and cabinets and swamping the floor, them full of and the wall covered by brittle dead foliage of every size and shape imaginable – a shrine to my Mary to show that death isn’t the end, that delicate allure, charm and grace and beauty, they can’t be ended by something so simple, but live on in the eyes of the beholder for all eternity.    

I sat by the bed, leaned over with a wrinkled hand of mine, brushed back her silver hair carefully, but still left clumps at the pillows top. Her sunken eyes were closed she was the epitome of peacefulness. Her skin tough, forehead leather like, there I placed a single kiss and for a while, held her cold stiff hand and dreamt… “I love you.”