Give me a dozen

I head up the stairs of the 42nd street station, and walk right into a ghost. Usually I encounter them closer to the apartment, or even in the apartment, but this one, like all the others comes as a complete surprise. The feeling is evoked by a man coming home from work, in a business suit. In his hands is a wrapped bouquet of fresh flowers. It is hard for me to look at cut flowers and not think of my wife. The joke in our house had been stolen from some marketing slogan: "Flowers make you feel good." That is very true for my wife. It's a bittersweet feeling, recalling the smile on her face each time I came home with flowers. I did this a lot for her. It was easy for me to remember to do, because of all the positive reinforcement. It really did make her happy.

I still bring her flowers fairly often when I see her. It still does make her smile, but there's a tinge of sadness to her smile that I understand. I feel it too. Flowers will long remind both of us of our earlier, happy years together, a time we can't go back to. A time, that in hindsight, seems quite simple, innocent, and comforting. After seeing this ghost of my past, I had to try very hard not to cry as I walked down 43rd street.

Divorce is devoid of joy.
posted 11:08 AM | link |