Lover of Flowers

I bought an end table because it looks like I could’ve plucked it out of a photo of my grandma’s living room in the 70s, dusted off, reassembled, and no longer tinted a faded pink like the surface of the photo from which it emerged. Mango flavored things are often more enjoyable than mangos themselves but I bought some anyway just for the self-indulgent nostalgia of it all; well the real, less snarky reason is that I used to think fresh fruits and veggies a luxury I did not deserve. The moon is visible from every window in my place except the one in the kitchen, and whoever has to develop the film from the disposable camera I bought will have to share the joy of the blurry shots of this view with me. I feel safe and at ease at home, even with work seeping through the webcam and between my feet if I don’t close the door fast enough. There are several comfortable places to doze and drift away from wakefulness for me and any number of friends who visit. My plants grow sturdy and vivid green. The floor is mostly spotless and always free of someone else’s broken glass. There are mismatched blankets, an emerald couch, and fresh flowers for the altar every week. My grandma, mum, aunts, uncles, and my 7-year-old self grin and laugh at my present self from two frames of the same photo, from a day of the purest joy I have experienced so far, even with the uninvited guest lurking behind us, only a hem in view. Grief and uncertainty do not feel less grim here, but I’m sleeping better than I have in months. I’m saying all this aloud so that I can tell my self from 2016 or 2019 that I am in fact not a neurotic disgrace, that ease and contentment are possible, that punishing my self for every failure—perceived or true—is unsustainable and a diversion from all the living I still want to do. Most days in this place, I feel like my favorite poem, and the satisfaction is so deep that I almost don’t care that a lot of what I have just shared may make little sense, logically or narratively speaking.