3/22/2018

I put the car into park and tilted my head back with a sigh. It'd been a long day at work, and I just wanted to go to sleep right where I was, not even bothering to go inside. The memory of what tomorrow held weighed on me; I'd no idea whether to even act upon the knowledge of that day or to let it pass me by.

I heaved myself up out of the car. Raindrops pattered against me, polka dot stains marking my jacket with moisture as I grabbed my belongings from the back seat. I shouldn't care about tomorrow. I didn't care about tomorrow. It meant nothing to me anymore, just like I...

I froze. Somehow, a feeling crept over me, and I slowly turned on my heel. There, on my door, hung a wreath of clover. I stood in bewilderment, my mouth hung open. Words escaped me, not that there was anyone around to whom to offer them.

I sneaked towards the door, quietly, as if not wanting to scare the flower chain away. To anyone else, it would've just seemed to be a braided loop of flowers. But to me, it held memories in every stem and petal. I reached out, ever so slowly, all but expecting to wake up and find myself dreaming.

I did not. My hand touched the wreath, and gently scooped up the circlet as though it were a newborn child. The flowers were freshly picked. I stared at them for what felt like an hour, memories playing like a film reel behind my eyes.

Part of me wanted to throw it over my shoulder and leave it wherever it may lay. Another part wanted to hold onto it forever, as a sign that some things never truly die. Part of me even wanted to tear it to pieces and stomp it into the dirt.

But the part of me that won was the one that put it back where it belonged: on top of my head, where she'd put it that day several years ago.