I fill the vase full of water, nearly to the top. I hate when flowers prematurely die. This bouquet shines bright, each petal full of life. Two days later, I notice a handful of dull petals and tiny green stars floating in the water.
Three days later, a handful of petals give up and fall onto the table. The decay on the stems has begun its ascent to the remaining petals. I take the vase to the sink and pour out the tiny green stars. I fill it with new water and sprinkle in some magic flower powder. “You can hang in there a little longer, yeah?” I whisper. I set the vase back down on the table next to our bed.
The weekend comes. Death spreads into the core of three flowers. The outside rot worked its way inside. They are dead. I yank them out of the vase. I don’t want their deaths to create more death.
On Tuesday, the tiny green stars have disappeared into a cloud. The alive petals slump to the table as the browning stems give way under their weight. These weren’t dead flowers. These petals still have color. I thought, “The water is probably toxic.” I pull out the entire bunch and pour out the brown water. “Should I cut the stems again? At an angle, right? No. I shouldn’t. That might shock them and they aren’t doing too well.” I put fresh water in the vase. I throw out the saddest flowers of the bunch and place the remaining few back in. I set the vase back down on the table by our bed.
By Thursday, they are all dead. I don’t throw them away. I empty the foul water. But I left them by our bed.
I say, “There isn’t anything we can do if he doesn’t want help we can’t make him.” He is full of life. His rosy cheeks filled with laughter as he cracked jokes. Sure, sometimes he was out of it, even dozing off in inappropriate places.
Three years later, I notice his wide eyes searching every room. I encourage him to find a different job and leave that woman. As I examine his face I prod, “You can hang in there a little longer, yeah?”
2011 comes. His wild eyes spread to wild thoughts. “Did you see my new truck? Come look inside. Remember, when we were little and we walked the railroad tracks. Look at the ashtray there is a lighter.” He shuffles around. Who gave him more? He left that woman. Good. Her addiction was creating more addiction.
In 2013, his rotten teeth are unable to support his rosy cheeks. His hair and beard sprout out in all directions. His wide eyes continue their search. But he still captivates a room with his stories. I trim his hair and hug his tall lanky torso. “You have to get help.” He doesn’t respond. The rot has started to spread to his core. Why can’t he stop?
Today, he is nearly dead. I open the door to his pitch-black room. He lays in his bed with a plate of pizza on his lap. His head slumps down nearly touching the plate. The slice of pizza is dwarfed by his enormous hand. I reach out and shake his shoulder. His head bobs up and he looks at me with confused eyes. I sit down beside him on the bed.