Love, Relationships, Ghosts

Lilies for Lilly

Fiction: Missing him has become part of who I am

When the church lights up at night, the building looks magnificent from the cemetery. It’s the best time to visit the grave.

I try to go as often as possible, as missing him has become part of who I am. It’s pointless to keep away.

Occasionally, walking along the path towards the wrought iron entrance of the graveyard I’ve caught a glimpse of a barn owl swooping down into the adjacent field, talons spread wide ready to capture his prey. I remember reading once that seeing one of these majestic animals is considered a bad omen. But why would such an idea concern me now?

Anyhow, this evening the moon is full, and the night bird is nowhere in sight. Good luck, or more likely the nocturnal creature has already eaten? I am not superstitious but…

Arriving at the headstone, I briefly turned my attention to the inscription, my body trembling from unspent emotion. I re-arranged the flowers to keep occupied, though it has to be said, he preferred plants.

“Flowers die and drop their petals all over the sideboard. Sad, messy things. Give me a robust rubber plant any-day.” He’d state.

But once… he gave me flowers.

We had the most dreadful argument.

I was late home from work on a night we had arranged to spend together. The truth is, I’d forgotten.

He’d prepared what should have been a marvelous meal. I walked in through the door, exhausted and wanting to relax in a bath.

“You really need to get your priorities right, Lil.” He’d shouted. “I took time off to get home early and cook. All you do, in return, is stroll in late. Without even letting me know you were held up. The dinner’s ruined. It’s all ruined.”

“But, I’m sorry, I…”

Once again, words and deeds twisted, leaving me desolate.

The door slammed, car brakes screeched and he was gone. I sat in the middle of the floor, wailing. Sometimes we just couldn’t get things right. I knew he’d be at his best friend’s house. The pair would be moaning about women and drinking too much whiskey.

Distraught, I tried to call, but his phone was switched off. I never meant to hurt him. Ever. I loved him. Still do…

Finally, I fell asleep on the sofa and awoke as he returned the following morning, brimming over with apologies and a bunch of lilies in hand.

“Lilies for my Lilly.” He held out the flowers.

I replied it was my fault. I should have done better. Would do better next time. Then, as I jumped into his arms, he dropped the bouquet, and together, with the stems, we hit the floor urgently undressing each other. My sex pulled him into warm tender flesh, and we made love, on a floral bed, as if it was the first time. The lilies were a mess of scattered petals by the time we’d finished. Sticking to our perspiring skin and adorning my hair.

How I missed him. His smile, his touch. The look he reserved especially for me.

Now my heart ached from the constant pain of being alone. It’s only here that occasionally I get any respite.

Tonight I am lucky. Just as I am about to leave, I see him walking towards the grave, the light from the moon illuminating his face.

Reaching out, I touch his arm. But he responds by buttoning his jacket up to the neck, before kneeling to insert a new bouquet into the vase — mouthing the inscription on the stone:

In loving memory of Lilly Simmons. A loving wife and daughter. Taken from us too soon. Born 1975, died 2004.

More by May…

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