I woke up that morning to the sound of her dogs nails clicking along the wooden floorboard. As I opened my eyes, the sun shone through the clear window in a single beam of eternity. Little particles travelled across it like the evacuation of the world. I lifted my hand to my disturbingly messy hair and slid my fingers through it. And it was at this point that I realized I was back. That I was alive again. That I was still breathing in this world. Nothing like the sound of scratching dog nails and a disappointing epiphany to greet you in the morning. I sat up supporting my body with my right elbow. Right, the couch. That is where I had last been awake. Where I had last asked whoever was listening to leave me sleeping in my vaults of dreams. Happily, smiling at the beauty of being able to forget everything and everyone for at least five hours. It was truly peaceful. And I didn’t even know it was happening. I started to look around and observe the room I was in. Television in the corner, chair in front of me to the right side of the room, flowers, vases and pottery on a little wooden shelf in front of the window. Cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, scraps of paper, dead cell phones and a few books on edible and non-edible herbs and flowers on the coffee table right beside me. The dog came up to me and began staring at me with curious eyes, almost as if to ask: “Why so gloomy? Do you know where you are? What’s your name? Want to be friends? Pet me?” So I did. I began petting this little dog and it was truly appreciative. Its tail began smacking the floor repeatedly. I sometimes wish I could be a dog. Days would be a lot simpler. No more caring. No more energy wasted on trying to gain energy. Have food and water brought to me everyday and the odd delicious snack. Sleep when I like. Yeah, it would be good. I heard something downstairs. Like footsteps. Another poor innocent soul was being dragged back into this unforgiving treachery. I wiped my eyes and sat up fully. Outside the window you would see a normal backyard, lots of grass, a fire pit and trees. I began to ponder what was behind those trees. We never really take the time to consider that until we begin to become sick of seeing the same thing over and over again each day. “What’s beyond what the eye can see?” Maybe there’s a magical pond that people jump into that takes them to some kind of heaven. Some kind of peaceful, beautiful, colourful freedom. But we will never know. Because we never really take the time to go outside for exploration anymore. There is always some sort of reason behind leaving our boundaries. Never for our own pleasure or curiosity. And even saying this I still don’t get up and step across the other side. Why? Who knows. Maybe I’m just scared to be disappointed. Maybe I’m just lazy. Either way, we still don’t know what’s beyond those trees. Maybe one day we will find out. But for now, we return to this room. My throat was incredibly dry so I stood up and held the walls around me as I walked to the kitchen. It wasn’t that far, maybe ten steps, but that was enough for me to consider not going. It was a dirty kitchen. I won’t lie. Flies flew everywhere, unwashed dishes covered the counters. I almost wanted to start washing them myself but by now you know I wouldn’t do that. I opened the cupboards and began my search for a glass, but only to find absolutely nothing. Even if one of the glasses needed to be washed for my own well-being, I still didn’t. I let out a quiet “shit” and began doing circles looking for some sort of container. At last, I had found a six pack of water bottles. I ripped one from the package and walked back to where I would spend my whole day in this house. As I sat down on the couch I noticed there was a half empty bottle of Smirnoff Ice I mustn’t have finished from the drunken night before. I compared the two beverages in my mind and picked up the cooler, leaned back, and turned the TV on. Ironically, “The Rum Diary” starring Johnny Depp was playing. If you don’t know me, you will now know that I am truly in love with Depp’s acting . . . and his hair. Someone was upstairs, I knew because the floorboards creaked as you walked along them. The bottle was angled fourty-five degrees on my lips as she walked around the corner, she was beautiful, in an innocent way, in the way where you feel like your appearance doesn’t matter and the fear of not being good enough leaves your mind completely. The kind of beauty that made me forget about the tornado of hair on my head. I couldn’t pick her name from the river flowing through my mind at that moment. “Good morning” she said with that vulnerable smile of hers. This was only the second time I had met her not including that time she honked at me in the Wal-Mart parking lot, and left me wondering who had just honked at me. “Good morning” I returned. “How’d you sleep?” she asked. I smiled and placed the bottle back on the table and readjusted the blanket covering my knees. “Fine, thank you.” I said. “And you?” She shot a smile back at me that could have made me bleed empathy. “It was okay, sucked to wake up though.” She didn’t realize how strong the words that just left her mouth were. How much they meant to someone like me. How much truth there was inside them. “Yeah . . . I know what you mean.” I said. She smiled again and put on a pot of coffee. I watched her as she pulled a mug from the cupboard to the left of the sink. I mentally slapped myself in the face; why didn’t I take a few more seconds to look there. She walked into the room and sat on the chair across from me. “What are you watching?” she asked as she sipped from her mug. It took me a few seconds to realize she had asked me something. “Pardon?” “What’re you watching, I asked.” She giggled a little at my obliviousness. “Oh, just a movie, The Rum Diary.” “Oh, cool.” A few minutes went by in silence. It was kind of nice, just having her presence there made me feel a little disconnected from myself. I finished the cooler and opened the water bottle, it sure did taste better than alcohol at nine in the morning, plus it was cold. I took my eyes off the screen and began staring out the window again, the sun was brighter than usual, it frustrated me, the sun was a selfish, cruel entity. On days when people could use it most, we are greeted with rain and darkness. When our minds just need a small amount of light to function properly again, the sun hides behind the clouds that fog our minds, smiling. Like a child who thinks he’s escaped being captured in a game of tag. And on the days where we just want a little shade and peace, it dances in our faces, grinning and waving its long, infinite arms obnoxiously. I hate the sun. I really do. But looking at her looking out the window, I don’t think she carries the same amount of loathe and anger as I do, I think she is just thankful it has came to visit us today, instead of never again. I think she is happy to see the world just as it was yesterday, nothing out of place or disordered. Happy to hear the birds singing their songs and the deer walking together as one. Happy to see the trees still standing tall and proud and breathing. I loved her for that. I really did. I didn’t care if it was my second time seeing her. We both sat there staring out the same window, into the same picture, and I started to think, being alone shouldn’t be always looked upon as a negative thing. I mean, her and I were alone, and I was quite content with everything passing by us. Time no longer meant anything, I could have sat there with her and watched the world wake up and fall asleep, forever. My worries and anxieties had vanished from my body, all the little antagonistic, pessimistic thoughts instantly flooded from my mind, draining me of all sense of awareness and being. I was at that moment, free. But like anything, it didn’t last forever. I heard another person getting out of bed. That must’ve been Cathy. I remember her name because last night was the night I introduced myself to her, she was a woman who appeared to be in her middle to late fifties. She was sick. Her morning consisted of pills to keep her balanced and steady, coffee, bread, a cigarette and coughing. I feel bad for her. I do. I want to touch her and take her suffering away. I want to rid her of those capsules. But I can’t. I can’t heal anyone. I can’t even heal myself. At this time I was staring at the floor, the nameless girl was watching the movie and Cathy was lighting a cigarette. She offered me one, I accepted. I do enjoy smoking. I placed it between my lips and struck a match. Flame, inhale, exhale. It was relaxing. “Thanks.” I said. She just smiled. Everyone seemed to smile a lot in this family and I didn’t know why. Was there some secret to happiness I didn’t get in on, was there a drug that I didn’t get a chance to buy, because clearly I was missing out on something. Happiness doesn’t come for free, I know that now. Happiness, just like everything else, is earned. And I’ve always wondered when I would be able to obtain it. If I ever could. Although it is not a main priority of mine, it would still be nice to have something to hope for. Hours began to drag their way around the clock. My friend had called from his house wondering if I was still there. Of course I was. Once he left and got ran over by a four-wheeler, he wasn’t coming back for me. Where would I have gone? I told him I was going to stay with Cathy and keep her company. As it turns out, we were both huge fans of horror films. So that was how our afternoon spent, conversation over cigarettes, sunlight, water and horror films. The thing with Cathy is, when you first looked at her, you would see a woman, suffering, almost asking you to take her life from her. But she was much more than that. Oh, she was much more. One by one, she read chapters of her life to me. In slow, detailed sentences. She told me stories of her mother, who would treat her like anything but her daughter, and her neighbour, who always left her a slice of cheese in their fridge every morning. Her dad, a really interesting character who travelled the world. How she met the Queen with him. She went on and on and I couldn’t have been any more intrigued than I was then. I later found out that the pottery pieces were done by her mother, and all of a sudden, they had much more meaning to me than just a piece of pottery. Much more expression and emotion. After awhile, I decided to read her some of my poetry, finding out she was interested in art. I read her two poems, one that I’m not sure if I will finish and one I wrote about my last words. Her criticism was something I needed. Something that let me knew that my writing does affect. I thanked her. She smiled. Suddenly, she stopped the movie and asked me to follow her; she brought me into the kitchen and told me to look out the window. I leaned closer and saw nothing but trees. She told me just beyond those trees there was a little pathway that brought you to a beautiful flower garden, that one day she would like to bring me there. I continued staring out the window trying to see past the trees when she asked me if I like flowers. I told her yes, that a lot of my poetry uses flowers as metaphors and to describe beautiful people or feelings or things. She then asked me what my favourite flower was, and I told her, stargazer lily. That brought a smile to her face, because she loved lilies too, in fact, she enjoyed all flowers, she thought they were so, so beautiful. She told me about the dangers of certain ones and the breathtaking scents of others, and just then, the phone rang. It was my father screaming at me wondering where I was. I figured if he didn’t know I hadn’t left my friend’s place, how did he know I wasn’t there. As it turns out, my friend called my house asking if I was there, only being answered with another question: “Isn’t he there?” And that is where this beautiful moment in time spiraled out of control. I hung up my phone and looked at Cathy and said: “That was my dad; he wants me to go home, I’m sorry. I really enjoyed this today.” She said okay, and gave me a hug. “It was very nice meeting you today and your poetry is lovely. Here, take these for the walk home.” She handed me two cigarettes. I don’t think she realized how thankful I was for them. Just as I walked out the door she yelled my name, “Yes?” I answered. “Do you think you could write me a poem when you have some time?” I looked at her and smiled. Finally feeling something to smile for. “Of course, Cathy. Of course I can.” And that was the last time I saw her smile. Walking down the road I pondered all the things I could write about and how I would infuse them to her story. How I could come up with something so big and realistic. It was at this point that I realized this would be her story, her poem. That nothing I could write would ever be as factual and true as this. And it would be called “Flower Lady”.
