The Chair & The Daisy

The last time you were here,  we sat on the patio and talked for hours.  It was one of those spring days where it is finally hot.  We'd survived a long, cold winter and longed for those days.  Finally, they had arrived.  My pale skin was burning at its reunion with the strong, warming sun.  You sat in the chair on the left, and I on the right. 

 

Now, 17 days after your death, I go to that chair.  I sit in it.  Somehow, it seems snug, as if it were custom made to fit me.  In it, I imagine that I feel you hugging on me.  It might sound crazy mon amie, but it lends me a fleeting moment of comfort. 

 

I look at the Gerbera daisy you brought me that day, and I hate that cheap little plant for outliving you.  I want to smash the pot on the stone patio, but I cannot bring myself to destroy the last tangible thing you gave me.  After all, it's beautiful.  It has died many deaths, appearing to be beyond resurrection, wilted, dry, limp.  But I tend to it and love on it, and it springs back to life again and again. 

 

I know you are with me.  I feel you near me at times.  I remember your words, and when I need new words, I intuitively know what they would be.  I know how you would comfort me through this.  I just want to hear your sweet voice saying the words.  I want to look into your lovely, loving, wise eyes and see for myself how much you care for my hurting heart. 

 

The emptiness and loss are massive.  The tears are a bottomless well.  I am carrying on, G.  I am.  I just wanted to carry on with you a bit longer before this separation.