The smell of rain humidified the air. I hit snooze twice, three times. I’m convinced rain in Los Angeles should be considered a snow day, a break from routine, from working hard, a day to stay under the blankets. Even Gladys didn’t want to undo the tight ball of her sleeping body.
Contemplating a fourth snooze, I heard a knock on the door. Doubtful it was my house, I rolled over. Another knock disturbed the chilled room. What the hell do the neighbors want at 8 a.m.? I dragged myself out from the depths of my comforter and headed to the door. Gladys didn’t budge.
Soaking from the rain, bright yellow sunflowers glowed just under his chin. I was shocked to see him. Apprehension had me concerned what I was wearing; my polar bear pants that I’ve had since high school and a sleeveless t-shirt from a previous decade. Nope. Not sexy at all. I brushed the front of my sleeveless to straighten the wrinkles, then opened the screen door.
“I didn’t know you were coming.” I’m an idiot.
He didn’t say a word, just stood there in the rain, looking all cute and cuddly and sweet.
“Anthony, I’m sor⎯”
“I love you more.” He interrupted.
There was no time for apologies; we were too busy taking off wet clothes and polar bear pants.
It’s such a sweet memory, the one of him bringing me flowers after a fight. Seems so long ago. The memory is difficult to label and file. It’s bold. It’s the memory that keeps coming to the front of the line and wants to be remembered. Always.
You want to know the loneliest part about having cancer? The loneliest part was that I didn’t have it, I loved a man who did. Now, he can’t bring me flowers on a rainy day.
Chasity Glass 2011