Gardens

I opened the backdoor windows, blinding light streaming through. The garden was full. It had orchids, carnations, tulips and roses. Pink ones, white ones, purple ones. She hated them. She sneezed every time we walked by the forest and rashes came alive when she passed gardens. She hated them -called them a nuisance. I was adamant to disagree. I saw them as a gift from mother nature, all bright and free -everything I used to be. Everything I so desperately wanted to become again. The faint aroma they let out, the slight colors they blossomed into. The way the leaves would rustle with every blow of wind. They were beautiful. But maybe, it wasn't the flowers that were beautiful. Maybe it was the slight scowl on her face at the sight of them or the scrunch of her nose when it smelt bad. Maybe it was that she would rant to me for hours when her allergies got worse. Because now, now that she's gone, they don't look so bright anymore. I pass by the garden again. It's ironic that everyone's giving me flowers now. It was manners, I suppose. It was meant to fill some void in my heart, bring some happiness during the dull days. But it wouldn't bring her back. They were sent as a sign of pity, pity for me. Pointless pity, from people who barely knew me -let alone her. They didn't even know she hated flowers. Please don't send me flowers.