Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

I Was Gone

I see you there,
with those pink, paper thin flowers in your hand.
I know you know what they mean.
I know you know you don't need them
to promise to keep me in your memory.

You first gave me those pink carnations the day I left for college.
We were at the airport terminal,
a line of yellow tape
the tallest wall either of us had ever seen,
yet so short it was impossible
not to hurdle over it.
So you placed those flowers in my hands,
and with a kiss on my cheek,
was gone.

The second time we saw those flowers
was when you went to England for your year abroad.
Once more we had been separated by that stubborn yellow tape,
and as I pressed those flowers in your hands,
I pressed a kiss to your cheek,
and then you were gone.

The third time was my turn to receive those pink carnations.
I was flying to Connecticut for my first year at Harvard.
I would be gone for four years.
You pressed those flowers into my hands
and with a kiss on my cheek,
I was gone.

I received those flowers again soon after that.
I was going to be gone for a very long time,
and you didn't want me to forget your love.
Only you never placed those flowers in my hands,
never pressed a kiss to my cheek.
Instead the flowers went to the foot of my grave,
and the kiss went to my coffin.
And with that,
I was gone.

But let me raise you this:
tiny orange flowers.
So small you never spared them a look
while we strolled the farmer's market every Saturday.
Yet I saw them.
I know what they mean.
So, as I see you here every Saturday,
I wish I could place
those tiny orange butterfly weed blossoms in your hands,
and with a kiss on your cheek,
finally allow you to rest.