Should I Set the Flowers on Fire?

Taking photos of cemetery flowers: something else I never thought I’d have to do.

The flowers arrived a day early, on a Monday, now my least favorite day of the week. It was also the 17th, now my least favorite day of the month. But 14 months after you chose to end your life, it’s way past time to cross this one of many gruesome tasks off my list. And I can finally send a note to my godmother, who months ago sent me a check and asked that I please put flowers on your grave for her.

Luckily, they arrived while our son was out. I carefully used an X-Acto knife to remove all evidence of the sender from the box. I have no desire to remind him yet again of what happened; he has enough memories to combat.

Finally, I dared to look at the arrangement itself

I ordered these silk flowers from the sadly necessary “Flowers for Cemeteries” website. Blue for the color of your amazing eyes; yellow because it always made me happy; monstera leaves because I love them and eventually, you did too. I don’t remember if I knew the bouquet contained monstera leaves when I ordered it, but they’re perfect.

The whole bouquet is perfect. But still, for a moment, I had an almost overwhelming urge to set the whole arrangement on fire. I thought the hardest part would be ordering them, but I was wrong. The hardest part was facing the reality that I had to now actually do something with them: drive the scant half-mile to the cemetery, place them in the urn, and accept, once again, the fact that you’re gone.

Your grave was easy to find; it was the only one around with no flowers in the urn.

I felt a pang of shame at that moment, but whatever. I know you wouldn’t care; neither of us was a big fan of the practice of putting flowers on graves. But you’re gone, and I’m here, so now, for better or worse (how ironic), I get to decide what I will and won’t do.

Even the grave of the man whose inscription reads “You burned your mother’s heart” was graced with flowers: white orchids

There’s a terrible irony and symbolism in that choice, given the way this woman’s son died. I’m oddly grateful for the inscription she chose; it gives me something to tell people when I take them to your grave, something for us to talk about besides you, a necessary diversion from the horror of your abrupt departure.

So, thanks for orchestrating that, if you did so. I’d like to think you did; it would fit perfectly with your choice of movie for our first date, Pulp Fiction. Our shared sense of humor was just one of the million things that I loved about us, and I know you did too.

Arriving home to write this, I felt a grim satisfaction at checking one more thing off the seemingly interminable list. And I’ll continue to check things off the list, until all that remains are the memories — of the good, the bad, and the way you burned your wife’s heart. Maybe, if I burn the next bouquet — preferably on a Monday the 17th — I can set my heart free.