Don’t Forget the Pears, Daisy


It was an unusually hot September morning. I awoke from bed with a rustle and the sounds of cars bustling down the streets. As my eyes cracked I saw her short, dark ponytail
dangling as cigarette smoke danced out of the window and onto to unfortunate
patrons below. Reaching for the carton across the bed, I saw her. And I wanted
to kiss her forehead and say I love you and everything is just like the old
days and please, baby, let me hold you. God, I would love to touch you.

But I don’t touch her even though I need to. She will soon prepare to go downstairs to the market. Downstairs to eyeball the wondrous array of local wares two blocks down the huddled streets. I knew she would return with daises. She loved daisies. She loved the starched, snow white
petals with those bright yellow centers spread wide open to engulf the sunshine
in a giant embrace. I miss daisy season.

Right now she’s still hurling little clouds down the fire
escape, a cup of coffee sitting on the sill waiting for her lips to give it a
moment’s notice. And I know I should open my mouth, but I can only stare as the
smoke pirouettes through to the outside world.

She downs the coffee and begins to gather her things: house keys,
cash, cloth sacks for toting the vibrant harvest of our neighbors. And in this
moment I love her so much that my ribs are full of vibrations – ready to crack
open and let all my feelings embalm her in a fury fit for the Greeks and I call
to her to say “I love you.”
But instead I say “Did you make the coffee?”, knowing that there is a ring on the chipped windowsill.
She replies with an oddly hesitant Yes.
“Don’t forget the pears. And daisies, lots of daisies.”

Of course, she says in an almost whisper. I always remember. And she walked out of the door and left the room full of pregnant sounds yet to deliver.I’ll always remember. The sounds of her words thud in our tiny apartment kitchenette.

And she did. She always remembered. Now that girl is gone
and her memory has become as hazy as the clouds of smoke we always blew out
that window. Her eyes slowly fade from my brain and I understand the importance of
I still love her.
I have hung onto this mini story for quite some time. I hope you enjoyed it.