Dead Flowers | H.S.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Falling back into a routine was easier than I had anticipated.

I cleaned the house every Sunday, turning Howard's record player as high as it would go and singing at the top of my lungs. I scrubbed the windows, swept the floors, washed the dishes, strung clothes up to dry on the clothesline, took out the trash, sorted the fridge, vacuumed all the carpeted rooms, beat the rug on the back porch, watered the plants, opened all the windows, turned the air conditioner off, picked fresh flowers, pressed the wilting flowers from the week before. I made myself a big dinner on Sunday's. Sometimes steak and potatoes and corn and sometimes stew. I would make the meal last all week. I never wasted a bit of food.

Monday's were garden days. I spent all morning in the kitchen, swaying softly to the radio while preparing myself my regular breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, and avocados. Then I put on the sun-hat I'd found in Howard's room, slip into old shorts, and tend to the garden until the early evening. There was always work to be done: there were leaves to be picked up, weeds to pull, flowers to water, branches to clip, dirt to ho, fruits to pick, vegetables to harvest, seeds to plant. I bathed every Monday night for a long time. I left the window open and lit candles and sat in a bubble bath. Sometimes I read. Other times I slept. Once I smelled like lavender and rich cream, I put on my favorite robe and reheated dinner. I usually sat on the porch to eat my dinner and let the summer air dry my long, long hair. I thought about Harry, then, most of the time. I wondered what he was doing and if he missed me. Sometimes I slept on the porch on Monday nights. I wasn't afraid. I wasn't afraid of anything on Monday's.

On Tuesday's, I went grocery shopping in the next town. I woke up early and got a black coffee and flaky pastry at a small cafe I'd found at the edge of town one rushed morning. They called me by my name and I tipped them each time. I read the paper and offered them smiles. Once, a timid but handsome waiter I'd seen each time I'd come in asked me to go dancing with him the following Saturday. I'd told him that I was in love and left it at that. I spent the afternoon shopping, mostly for groceries. Sometimes I wrote lists for myself and stuck them in my jean pocket the night before, but most of the time I slowly mulled around the store and didn't neglect an item. The store was locally owned by a man that always checked me out with a smile on his lips. I came to know him as Paul. The unfamiliar territory became familiar to me, and I found friends there. I usually bought them out of fresh fruits and vegetables. After I unpacked all my groceries, I headed to the bedroom and took a nap. Then I would wake up and write a letter to Howard while snacking before dinner.

Wednesday mornings were my slowest mornings. I slept in as late as my body would allow me—which was usually somewhere between seven and nine AM—then stayed in my pajamas until the late morning. I would head out to the mail box once to collect the papers and then mail my letter to Howard. Howard's letters came on Wednesday's. While I ate breakfast and skimmed through the newspaper and hummed along to the radio, I read his letters. They were positive, usually, and put a smile on my face for the rest of the day. I put all of his letters on the fridge and read them whenever I missed the sound of his breathing or the touch of his fingers. The rest of the day was spent in the house, catching up on reading and music and current events. I fell asleep early on Wednesday's, most of the time on the couch.

On Thursday's, I rose early to water the plants and brew myself strong coffee. I ate a big breakfast and watched the sun rise. Sometimes I watched the news. Other times I rocked on the porch swing with my eyes closed to feel closer to the earth. Then I sat at the piano and practiced for a few hours until I was ready to continue writing the song I had started once Howard left and I was alone. Little things inspired me. On Thursday's, I kept every door and window open, because the giggling from the housewives next door and the chirping of the birds and the barking of the next door dog (Lucky) and the patter of the rain and the hollering of children made my fingers twitch into action. I figured out a month into solitude that my song was entitled Sweetness. It changed from week to week. Sometimes it was happy, sometimes it made me weep. Sometimes it was long and other times it was short. Each time, though, I felt Howard behind me. I felt his presence on the sofa, tired eyes resting and lips tight with a smile as my music pleased his ears. I missed him on Thursday's. So much so that I usually skipped dinner and went straight to bed after my fingers ached themselves into numbness.