Cassandra

Those who love the smell of flowers


When we were younger you thought I was perfect. You thought it the first time when you decided your afternoon was worth wasting just to wait for me. Outside of an old building, you sat in hopes to see me again. This was when we'd innocently approach each smile because we were just learning about love. You, how love feels when someone loved only you. Me, how love feels even with a second-rate heart. We walked to your car and all I could see was rich purple irises and emotion, nevermind the supermarket bar code. You didn't tell me then, but I knew. I could tell it in your eyes.

That was when we fell in love. When nothing else mattered because we couldn't understand otherwise.

You told me I was perfect while laying in bed contemplating my questions, secretly contemplating your future. I could feel the sheets smooth my skin as I rubbed them between my toes. Layer upon layer soothing me into sleep. You laughed at my childhood habit because you loved my quirks. You said I was perfect, gangly tall, puffy belly, button nose and all. You said that you didn't think you were good enough. I would smile and tell you you're perfect. And we agreed.

You surprised me with irises on my favorite holiday--the one that singles despise. I took photographs to remember the smell of the flowers.

Later, when you took me out, because I have fancy dreams of dresses, you showed me I was perfect, even though it was all my idea. You let me know how beautiful I always was, and how wonderful things were over dinner, even in dress shoes and ironed shirts. We pretended to be Four Seasons rich. This was when you would drive 180 miles to see me. I was worth the hours alone. My excitement was enough for the both of us.

When I traveled two lifetimes to see you in the city of youth, you reminded me that I was still perfect. You didn't tell me as I ran to you from the plane, as we waited out the taxi ride, as we opened the door. Despite my objections and disposition, you took work time and surprised me with more flowers.

There were numerous moments when you told me again how perfect I was, how lucky you were. I must have believed you because I started thinking ahead. You started taking care of things for me. The last time you bought me flowers, they arrived all ruined (perhaps an omen), and you helped me have them replaced. I knew you wanted them perfect but only because I expected it.

We will never know the moment where my imperfections broke your rose-colored glasses. Maybe it was when you stopped kissing me goodbye, or maybe it was when I ran away downstairs with the cooking spices, or maybe it was even when you said you'd buy me a necklace on your trip but you didn't. I could only hide for so long in your pink shade. I could only hide for so long how uncertain I was, without your affirmation. I wanted to be everything you thought I was, but I couldn't. I was unhappy with myself, but you could never help me. I covered myself in smiles. You still can't understand.

This time I bought my own flowers, like the first time when you and I became us, supermarket irises, beautiful in their own right. I didn't expect you to do these kind of things anymore. I didn't want to ask either. I had forgotten what flowers from you, from your heart, smelled like. I bought them to liven up the apartment for our impending graduation. These were the only flowers I received.

You were never supposed to disappear, but we started fading into the walls. And I became alone again, unwilling to share that hurt. Maybe I should have not yelled from a friend's house. Maybe I should not have cried in the bowling alley. Maybe I should have waited to really know. Maybe I should have decided before. But I wanted to pretend just for a little longer, that I could still be perfect.

bevy

oily marks appear on walls where pleasure moments hung before the takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this still life


"Look at you, you're beaming," she said when I saw her since the semester ended. This was when I still dreamed in movies and pleasure moments. I'd imagine my arrival greeted with a bevy of flowers and 2 1/2 week-old touch. Meticulous plans to blend our transition into fluid. I kept pretending.

Her smile was so comforting, when ignorance was easy. She congratulated me asking, "When are you leaving?"

If she saw me now, just a few days later, she'd wonder what happened to that girl. Where did I lose my smile? Through the empty mob I pushed through to the walkway and hailed a cab. She would never know the four bags worth of weight. She would never see the power of being crushed.

syllepsis

We decided to have a picnic with tea, jam and unresolved resentment. Excuses were common enough, like the ants crawling nearby the quilted blanket. He curled his middle fingers in anticipation to flick an unsuspecting guest, but there were too many. As he rid of one ant, another hopeful successor would arrive.

We should have moved but we couldn't. We were stuck in this in between, the other unwilling to give.

concomitant

My mother-in-law was folding the baby blankets by pushing the air out of the soft fleece and stuffing them into the box for Goodwill. I watched her carefully tuck away little socks she had knitted, little socks she wished she could darn. My wife remained calm and maintained perfect composure as she sipped a glass of wine, something she had sworn off over a month ago. This was the subsequent mourning of loss.

I wanted to yell and break this stupid silence. Throw clothes everywhere and shake my wife. Cry woman, cry damnit.

I remember when the blood ran out, after my wife had fallen to the floor in pain. Her hands were clutching her stomach. I held her head in my hands, stroking her hair as we waited for the ambulance to come. I remember how wet my hands were with her tears. So much pain. Too much pain.

She's looks wearily at me through the glass. It's okay, I promise. Just cry.

ne plus ultra

They wouldn't understand it, this masterpiece he created. Overpoweringly perfect, so much so that no critic would see what it represented. He crushed the clay with his right hand. They wouldn't understand.

myriad

I remember those summer days where we believed we had reasons to stay. Ten thousand dreams of leapfrogging rocks in the bayou; lounging pastries morning, noon and night; and naked hearts sharing beds. Amateur dreams you said they would say, but no matter, you said. We needn't listen. I couldn't tell you then that I believed them because I loved you more.

When I finally returned to visit, you congratulated my journey, shook its hand and patted it on the back. Idle polite chatter, you remarked, how wonderful. You had stayed, completed and worked, never leaving 1985. I stared at the human photograph wondering what happened to that little girl. The one I should have believed and all ten thousand dreams because you loved me more.

deportment

She smiled behind her polite deportment, listening.
But she kept silent, waiting for someone to listen to her.

halcyon

His run was cut short from the intermittent pouring rain. There he was, completely rain-soaked, squinting his eyes to keep the water from blurring his vision. Suprisingly, it was all so calmingly peaceful.

When the rain passed, he found himself inside his room. Door closed contemplating what it meant to be alive.

foray

When I wake up, all I want is to see your eyes telling me, “This is what you need.”

well two spinning spheres,
two spinning spheres in a bed of stars
silence is super
staring into space, I wonder where you are
you're all that I've ever needed
I know that you won't feel it

I'll be your respirator
I'll be your pressure suit
It's alright, It's alright
I'll be your four leaf clover
I'll be your pressure suit
I'll be your angel wings
I'll be your parachute
I'll be your running reason
I'll be your only reason
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop loving you

leitmotif

She recognized the chords from the orchestra pit. It had that strong beat, the "sound of fate knocking on the door," as one critic had put it. An aged-man was conducting the Fifth Symphony. His scraggly gray hairs subtly concealed a growing bald patch on the back of his head. He was losing his hair, but his wisdom carried. He would never lose his gift of music.

In such a fast-paced city, she found reassurance in the empty music hall. She'd often come and watch the orchestra practice during her lunch hour, while nibbling on a sandwich. Here among the empty chairs, invisible clappers to her left and right, she closed her eyes. Ever so often the conductor would turn to her, smile and wave her onstage. And for a few moments of her hectic life, she gave in to passion.

talisman

She fingered the heavy amulet on her chest. The tarnished chain endured her heavy heart. He had given it to her as a token of good luck before he rode away. Waiting years for him to return, she pretended that around her neck rested power. She could make garden greens flourish and water flow. She imagined it a beacon, where he could signal the moon and send her secret kisses. She saw beauty in the deep pool of blue and truly believed that with it, no harm would ever come between them.

When he never came back, she died. She lifted the amulet from her neck and placed it on the grave. It was just a necklace. She was the one that had given it meaning.

aspersion

We pretend we're ten again, running in swimsuits across a neighbor's yard. Unfortunately for Mr. Zuckerman, his fan sprinkler is waving back and forth beckoning us for a shower. She's laughing, like we used to when we didn't understand anger happens, things fall apart. Her feet leave half-baked impressions in Zuckerman's spring grass as she zigzags around the yellow contraption. The scene looks absurd, two barely clothed adults yelping to avoid the water. Except we all know we want to get wet.

It's almost holy, watching the water casually drop on her forehead, down her neck.

lucid

It was one of those moments you watch in the theater, where they guy and girl are standing at the same location where they first profuse their love for each other. There's a hug and a kiss, and the sparkling eyes full of tears. The movie fades to black and the credits roll back to reality where he finds himself standing opposite a girl that for five years has disappeared out of his life. Why? Because he said so.

She's looking at him with inquisitive eyes, and it seems that they're about to recreate the classic scene he's seen a million times in the movies. Everything is extremely lucid, even the sky is empty blue. He tries to tell her this time, tell her differently that he was wrong. He didn't mean for all this time to pass, to forget what she smelled like, to forget the way her forehead wrinkled when she is upset. But she just shakes her head, silence blowing by, and he closes the gap between his lips. Because she said so.

meritorious

This is my word, because today is my day.

caduceus

The insignia spoke for itself. The tight coil of snakes somehow gave birth to great wings. He was a snake, he was a liar, and most importantly a thief. His silence spoke for itself, like the insignia. Great wings resting on falsity.

predication

My eyes follow the sun strokes along the canvas of water. The sun has a knack for capturing shimmer. It's painted the water in easter egg colors as it did the tiny rowboat that skips along. I'm watching from the shore, back slouched, knees huddled in my ripped shorts. I need to stop picking at the thread, as I ball up little mounds of thread into the sand.

He's out there entertaining a family guest. If it wasn't a family guest, it would be some other guest. Sometimes they're so exclusive I never make it to the path towards the shore to join them. She's beautiful and inappropriately dressed in a confection of lace and ribbons. There's a small, pink stain where I spilled wine on it a long time ago, when he surprisingly embraced me in a kiss. Her naivety believes looking like me is all it takes.

They turn on cue to wave at me, as if I'll give my approval with a single wave back. But I'm not looking at them. Instead my gaze has focused on the dark where the sun has never finished painting. Yet, there is some spectrum of blue. He's yelling my name, repeatedly, desperately, yelling my name. I grace them with my attention. She's wet from an unexpected wave. I laugh.

When they return to the ground that covers my feet, I pull the rope towards the shore and take his hand. He hops out, takes her hand and sends her up the path home. We tie up the boat as she slowly turns back to watch us as I watched them. There are connections we never deny, and taking the ropes away from my hands he silently asks me to join him.

The last time I sat on that rowboat was over a year ago. I'd forgotten what the tiny ripples of water feel like. I'd forgotten what it's like to be painted by the sun.

slipshod

She keeps falling off the balance beam that we tell her to stay on. We're looking at her like she doesn't know what she's doing, so unprepared. We dispense advice so easily as if she'll fall off again, losing faith.

requisite

I wish I could explain to you what really matters, but then you would see how small my world is and that I need to grow. How certain occurrences affect me, how my emotions always get the better of me, but it's something that I will never understand. I am what I am.

We believe this isn't what we need right now. This is something we'll figure out.

I wish I could show you are necessary, one of those critical "cogs" that turns to make the whole machine work. Despite our carelessness and idle chatter as we sigh happily about our futures outside of here, or fret about nonexistent ones. You look at us with such expectations and high hope, trying to live vicariously through our youth. Because then you think when you understand us, we will understand you. You think you fail.

I hope you know you didn't. You never have.

baroque

The pirate is advancing towards us. I can smell his yeasty stench from booze and bacteria. Days lacking water and soap, the usual recipe of the sea. You'd imagine opulent robes draping his arms, heavy rings with heavy gems, and ornate detailing of his feathered cap, all of which he stole from his enemies. We are all his enemies. He approaches, and we are unable to turn.

His eye patch hides half of his feelings, as he asks, "Hey, do you have, like uh, uh a dollar, cause I totally took this can of soup, and I can't pay for it." I just stare. He's pleading. On his person you can only see a worn-out jacket, no shirt, and stained pants, all unwashed. A pirate with nothing to his name. Abandoned.

The soup can already has been pried open and the soup dripping down the steely side. We're unable to help as he dashes away towards to the grocery store exit. Store employees surround us as if we know where the pirate is going, asking us what he wanted. He ran towards the doors. Freedom, open waters!

cockalorum

we're only taking turns holding this world
it's how it's always been
when you're older you will understand

Every word out of his mouth was boastful. How he overcame numerous inexplicable complications. How grand he seemed to be his guest mused.

"But what about...," I lingered in my thought before collecting myself. He stared at me, eyes narrowed, but not with anger but fear. I didn't understand it at first, until I realized he knew how much of his weaknesses I understood. I hesitated at my power, words able to break any pillars he erected in his name. Those 30 seconds dueled between our unblinking eyes, waiting for the other to move.

I shook my head and allowed him to continue without finishing my thought. He shifted his weight back towards his guests, numbing his speech a little for me.