Flowers for Juliet

The knot of his black silk tie was exceptionally tight. He wore them so seldomly it was an alien sensation, the unrelenting grip of the hangman’s noose. The service at the small church had been solemn and respectful. He had wished for her some rays of sun that would not arrive. Numb in the sea of well-wishers and friends, their words were blending into the same mantra. He wanted only to escape and find refuge. The key now in the door, he turned off the telephone and the full weight of his body found a cracked leather chair. He gazed at the carpet, the clock on the wall, the ceiling. Anywhere but the foreboding stack of bills on the coffee table. There was much to be done but he was devoid of any motivation to move. It was the deafening silence that finally shifted him forward. How could so small a place, feel so empty? He asked himself. He paced and then remembered the tie. He could do away with it now, he had nearly forgotten. He tapped his pipe and struck a match. She always hated that he smoked, but always loved the smell. He would make great dramatic fanfare of it and don the cardigan she had made him for Christmas so long ago. He began to remove the items from her bureau drawer, carefully arranging things into neat little piles that began to form around him. The photos and slides were placed face down, eclipsed by the coupons. There were reminders for doctor’s appointments and the matching invoices stapled to them. He had never dealt with the bills, she had taken it into her hands even before the accident robbed them of so very much. She had kept her grandmother’s jewelry box on the bureau, opening it very occasionally, perhaps once or twice a year. The tune of ‘Swan Lake’ creaked out of the old box and filled the room. He watched the tiny ballerina, twirling carelessly in her pink dress and her tiny smile. Her world shrunken, like so many dreams. The box was always a very private, intimate thing and he had never dared to look inside of it. He delicately pushed the various costume necklaces and rings aside to reveal a small, very weathered black leather book. The first page contained phone numbers and addresses of long-lost friends and relatives. As he flipped through, something escaped onto the floor. It was a bank statement dated two weeks prior, the line balance was $20,000 even, no cents. He once again collapsed into the chair, doing his utmost to keep breathing. He must have been mistaken. He looked at it again, studying the date and the amount. He held his hand to his chest to stop his heart from escaping. He held it up in the light and could see pen strokes on the backside of the paper. She had simply written the words, ‘For us’. His trembling hands cupped his face and he could no longer cope with the strain of containing himself. His body convulsed, giving way to a river of tears. He looked at the coffee table, knowing that he would be free of its horrors. At that thought, he felt stabbing pangs of guilt. She was still looking after him, even from the beyond. It was a gift of freedom that she would never taste. He wiped his eyes, he could see in the mirror’s reflection that he was a red, swollen mess. He smiled, perhaps for the first time in ages. He clutched the tiny statement in his weary palm, for he could finally buy some beautiful flowers for Juliet.