flowers (attempt ~7)

While I was mourning, the flowers you gifted me died as well. Honestly, the gift had been nothing when it was given. A meaningless gesture, more motivated by courtesy than any actual emotion. Although the emotion was there, it wasn’t the point. The flowers didn’t mean anything, so I left them in a vase with water, but didn’t bother to do anything beyond that. When you died, I tried to water them, to give them nutrients and a symbolic meaning, but I couldn’t manage it. Still, you were so much more than those flowers, so perhaps it’s good that the symbolism didn’t have time to take hold.

As I figured out how to mourn, I forgot to water the flowers you had given me as condolences. Those few weeks of planning, of deciding the facade to put forward, were long enough that the little details (little details of the performance, or maybe just of life) slipped my mind for what felt like moments, but looking back was closer to weeks. You seemed to know the script by heart, but also to mean it genuinely, but I found myself alone on stage, having forgotten my lines, or even just the structure of the play of my life.

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