My Hidden Lives // Prose

19. about flowers for dead boys

gladioli for a beautiful boy

When a person dies, and you’re still dealing with it, you always experience that feeling of waiting, of just-about-to’s and any-second-now’s. It’s almost as if there’s something you’d forgotten to do, and you’re only biding your time until you remember. That’s how it was with my mother, but then it faded. I stopped expecting someone to clean up the mess my muddy boots made, and was no longer surprised when the scent of cooking didn’t welcome me into the house in the afternoons.

It’s how it still is with Jay. Perhaps it’s because he was so young when he left in a tornado of snow and glass and metal, but when I go out for a walk through the midnight streets of this forsaken town in search of a pack of cigarettes or pass by the pier in early mornings, I always expect to run into that strange boy with curly golden hair, although he’d be much older now. I’d tell him – „Hey, I’ve dreamt about you for almost five years now. It’s a long time to keep a person waiting.“

Instead of our mystical rendezvous, I buy a white rose – like the one I got from him a lifetime ago – and place it in a vase in my room. I do not visit cemeteries, or pray. I just remember.



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