The unfortunate ramblings of a bored writer.

forget-me-nots

forget-me-nots are my favourite flowers
we used to pick them, she taught me how to make them bouquets, my hands tumbling together as I made sloppy bouquets to give to her and my mum
the names ironic, something that we would do regularly and yet she still forgot me

I've heard people call it 'the long kiss good-bye' but it didn't feel long
I feel like I can still recall on those memories, my brain whirring with thoughts of how she smiled, how she laughed, how we would pick them.
I am cursed to remember her while she was given the bliss of forgetting me
a cruel taste of irony, I so hated seeing her in that bed, always refusing to go. and yet I'd do anything to see her one last time.

I wish that forget-me-nots meant that we would never forget each other and yet only one of us will remember
I remember how it started, her midnight walks and getting lost, having my grandad guide her home in the middle of the night, my father telling me not to take any of the "sweets" she offered me
when I see forget-me-nots I'm immediately flooded with this sense of longing

I wish for a woman who is no longer here, a woman who would give me words of encouragement and comfort me when I cried or scraped my leg
they used to grow outside of her caravan, the one that had a chair swing that I was never allowed to swing too fast on.
my house was flooded with forget-me-nots when she died.
at the funeral I vowed that I wouldn't cry. I vowed to not cry for a woman who could no longer comfort me.
but I did cry, and at the end of the ceremony I held hands with my grandfather, he was comforting me in place of her.

I think that's the one of the very few times my grandfather has comforted me. he often chose to hide behind his aggressive and unapologetic personality, always far too 'manly' to indulge in crying children.

most people in my family hate my grandfather, I can understand why. but even when he hurls insults at others or makes uncomfortable comments to me, I still see the grandfather that comforted me, and would have a kind look in his eyes whenever he saw me.

my grandfather comforted me again, but this time he was on what we thought to be his death bed. he clutched my nans pearls that I had over my neck while telling me how pretty they were, forgetting the person who gave them to me. like her, he was condemned to the same fate. I believe this is the last time he will comfort me.

ironically my other nan comforted me about the near loss of my grandad. I was at her house, colouring when we got the call. she gave me words to try and soothe my soul as we walked home, that dreadful walk home, the walk home that took place prior after my grandfather taking my hand and asking me if I was an angel to take him away.

and yet I still cry, I cry as I write this, I cry whenever I think about forget-me-nots for too long
forget-me-nots are my favourite flower, not because of the sadness it brings me, not because of the comfort but because of the memories and how I always think of her when I see one.

forget-me-nots are my favourite flower because I know that I was so dearly loved.

forget-me-nots are my favourite flower.