September

He’d gotten her flowers, as if he were coming back to her after a fight and offering flowers that secretly held an apology. And these flowers did hold an apology, as they were supposed to--the apology for not taking the risk that might have changed him from this man standing at a gate with flowers, a melancholy gate with bright letters that might distract the visitor of the loneliness of where he or she was. He might have been with her, laughing as they walked in the park or enjoyed a lunch at the café on Fifth Street.

Her favorite flowers were roses, irises, lilies, and orchids. He wasn’t sure how he’d remembered that--it seemed like forever ago she’d told him that when they were fifteen. He couldn’t remember why she’d told him that, either, but he’d bought three of each to create a colourful bouquet just for her. He found it hard to think that she would accept his apology when he couldn’t forgive himself for what he’d done...or rather, what he hadn’t done. She hadn’t deserved this--he had. He deserved it for letting his fears override logic, for hadn’t she said once, “You shouldn’t be so scared all the time. Take a risk, see where it leads you, then decide if it was worth it,”...hadn’t she?

He pushed open the gate and walked the cobblestone path, the autumn leaves crunching beneath his sneaker-clad feet. September was always her favorite month, just as roses, irises, lilies, and orchids were always her favorite flowers. And her favorite colour was actually many, but the number one favorite was always green. Her favorite animal was always the cat, just as his was. Her favorite music always was classical, because it brought back memories of when she first started writing. They’d discussed so many things, much more than he’d ever realized before now. Each had etched itself into the very crevices of his memory, never brought out before today, before he walked the leaf-covered path to her.

After what seemed like the last walk a prisoner takes before his death sentence is carried out, he cut across the grass and walked directly to her. Already the leaves from the overhead tree covered the top of the arched stone. With a trembling hand, he reached out and brushed them off, tears clogging his throat. Her name was etched perfectly onto the new stone, a brilliant white compared to the aged stones around. He hadn’t gone to the funeral, wanting to preserve the last image he’d had of her--a grin showing her white teeth, her eyes alight as they separated from their last hug, her honey curls bouncing around her face, he so close he could count the freckles on her cheeks and over her nose.

“I’m sorry for everything. I wanted to be with you, but I couldn’t get over the what-ifs, and now I’m paying for it.” He sank to his knees, laying the flowers against the bottom of the stone. He remained on his knees, his head bowed and eyes closed not in prayer, but in shame. Tears leaked down his face--he’d only cried three times in his life, this being the fourth--and his heart, throat, and head hurt with the unshed tears building up more and more in him.

A wind picked up, rippling through the leaves, causing them to rain down on him. With the breeze, he heard a faint whisper:

“I forgive you,” her voice filled his mind. “Now you must learn to forgive yourself.”

As he sat in the café on Fifth Street not more than ten minutes later, he began to forgive himself. And when he looked across the table, he saw her smiling at him, her honey curls bouncing against her face. She reached over and grasped his hand, but when he brought it against his skin, there was nothing but air.

FIN