Fiction by Mylea Neidig
Sunflowers. I always wanted yellow flowers at my wedding. I thought they’d complement a white wedding dress perfectly, highlighting the curls of lace. I spent days researching the best wedding flowers. I scoured blog posts and Pinterest boards to find something yellow, landing on the common sunflower. One blog said they meant adoration. Another said loyalty. The last, longevity. To me, they were the color of the sunshine casting a soft glow over your face as you proposed on a rocky beach. They were a tribute to a younger me, who used to pick at the seeds in the field behind her house, wondering what her future would be like.
Tulips. You planted them in the garden in the front of our house, their bright colors clashing with the stormy gray of the siding. I asked you why in the world you chose something so colorful, something that stood out so much. You told me they meant perfect love before kissing me breathless on our front porch. We pulled away, and I called bullshit. You laughed and admitted to reciting that fact off a sales flyer, before saying the bright colors reminded you of me. With a shake of my head, I smiled and kissed you again.
Carnations. A typical Valentine’s Day flower. The card attached to the bouquet on the counter that February morning said they meant fascination, impulsiveness, devoted love. You winked at me after I read the card, pulling at my pajama top as you pressed me against the counter. I giggled into your neck as you kissed my forehead, the shape of your lips searing into my skin, almost leaving a permanent mark. You took my hand in yours, tracing the words “I love you” into my palm as we stumbled up the stairs and into the bedroom.
Violets. They were a gift from your sister after we found out our little family would be growing. I remember that one night we were sprawled out on the floor of our living room, shouting baby names across the distance between us. You liked Olivia and Alyssa. I liked Joanna and Hope. We spent hours looking through the top baby names of the year, going all the way back to 1962. After a while we got bored, started rattling off different things we found in the room. Couch. Table leg. Lamp. Vase. Violet.
Poinsettias. It was our last Christmas as a family of two. My grandpa brought over a pot of these flowers on Christmas eve, an old family tradition. I was mesmerized by the deep red hue and how perfectly it matched the new ornament your mom had bought us. That bulb housed a mother, father, and their baby, tinted red for the season. Red to symbolize the blood of Jesus Christ. Red to symbolize the blossoming love between the two of us and for our unborn Violet. Red to symbolize the blood on my hands as I held our still baby, giving a crimson tint to my tears as they rolled down her smooth face.
Baby’s Breath. It was white innocence of a pure heart mixing with black darkness of a broken one. I found it an ironic suggestion for her funeral. A flower named after something she never got to take. But of course, you’ve always been one for the dramatics. I cradled the bouquets of baby’s breath laid across the casket while holding back a shuddering gasp, asking God why he didn’t take my breath instead.
Daisies. One day, you convinced me to leave the house, join you for your daily distraction as you walked around the neighborhood. My feet felt heavy as we stepped off our porch, though the extra baby weight disappeared long ago. As we walked past the park, a little girl ran up to me, holding out a daisy. I accepted the small flower and thanked her. I only heard bits of her mother’s apology for her daughter’s interruption. I was too busy turning the plant over in my hands, inspecting each petal. I shook my head, telling her it was fine, before turning to look at you. You couldn’t meet my eyes, remaining silent the rest of the walk home.
Roses. You forgot about our anniversary that year. You apologized weeks later, chalking the mistake up to a heavy workload, though I smelled the beer on your breath late that night. I bought myself roses that day, a beautiful mix of colors. The florist told me roses had a million meanings. The red ones meant passion. The pink ones were for happiness. The white ones for purity. The yellow ones, infidelity. I took the bundle of roses out to our backyard, picking the petals off one by one as I teetered between he loves me, he loves me not. The last pink petal got swept into the wind, followed by my wavering voice as I whispered, “He loves me not.”
Sunflowers. I pulled my t-shirts off my hangers, shoving them into boxes labeled with the rest of my possessions. I skimmed through the rest of the clothes, pushing further into the closet to remove old totes full of memories. When I took the last out one, the lid fell off, revealing our wedding album. At the end of the album, our wedding flowers were pressed into the paper, smushed alongside our table markers and drink menus. The flowers’ tips were browning, tainting the pale yellow that tried to poke through the dead petals. I took a deep breath, tracing the edges of the flowers before closing the album and packing it into a box.
