Two-day Tulips

I’ve closed the door behind you. The flowers you brought are still in the kitchen, along with the glass of water, half full and smeared with your lipstick. Wine was too extravagant for you tonight. Your presence still lingers in the air, and I don’t dare to move – I fear it might slip away before I can capture it, maybe find the ending to our story here. I’ve closed the door behind you, and something’s telling me that that’s the way it’s going to stay for now.  

I sit down on the kitchen floor and peak up through the window. You knew exactly what tulips to buy; the white ones, the ones that turn pink after a day or two, once they’ve made themselves comfortable in a new home. Me too, I have gradually grown prone to your warmth in the short time we’ve had. We slowly discovered each other’s love for detail, childhood memory-based doctrines, and gloomy weekend moods; the most humane sides of our existence. Uncovered it with careful hands, silently eager.  

All bits and pieces, I collect, and treasure them tightly in a warm embrace in my chest. They start to weave into each other. A knitted scarf rests around my neck and shoulders, a palette of colours, none like the other. I eventually will add your part, your colour standing out, it is still bright and soft to touch. I wonder if that’s all you’ve given me. If that’s all I’ll ever know, wonder what other colours you have shown to people, what new ones you will grow and bloom in. Who you’ll meet, what version of you they’ll meet and love. I might know your coffee order now, know how your locks shine golden brown when the morning light breaks through the window, but I’ve only breathed your existence for a while. I haven’t been by your side long enough to see what skies used to inspire you, and I won’t be around to buy you your next favourite pastry for when you come home after a long day of work.  

I pick up the flowers, put them in a vase and carefully remove the loose petals threatening to fall apart. It’s only ever strands of my loved ones’ lives I see. Some turn out to be longer than others, yet it all binds together into my lifelong piece of patchwork art, with every inch adding a glow of its own. With everyone I meet, whenever that may be, I gain another colour in my artist’s palette. You trust me with your story, but I’ll have to do the painting by myself.  

It will take a while for me to accept new threads. With you, my dear, we’ve closed the door.  

You can listen to a recording of this story at: Purple Radio Spotify

Illustrated by Amy Nugent