Late Bloomer

Out of the blue, in April, eight Flamingo colored orchids decided to blossom. Strange that they would, considering I am terrible with plants.

They haven’t done so since my ...

Ah... Why do I keep dwelling? I don’t want to remember. Every stillness reminds me of her void- from these vibrant flowers to the brightly upholstered empty chair in the indoor garden room, her frayed Daffodil-colored toothbrush hanging abandoned by the sink, to her side of the bed with the plump, Victorian rose pillow... Undisturbed.

‘Living’ in this empty house, it all feels like I’m floating in space, all alone like a dead Satellite.

They say that each of us has one soulmate on earth, and we are destined to be with that someone. Who would have ever guessed that a flat tyre on my bicycle 76 years ago in Japan would have me fall head over heels for the farmer’s daughter? I met her again when I was the General’s driver. With the Great War pitting our countries against one another, the wounds had barely healed when we met: We certainly didn’t speak the same language.

There was plenty of xenophobia all around their rubble-strewn towns, yet we somehow found ways to communicate and trust one another. I would travel in the opposite direction from the field office where I was stationed, carrying vibrant wildflowers I picked along the way, just to see her. I would then roll up my sleeves to help in any way I could on the family’s farm. She would chuckle listening to my broken Japanese and blush. In a land thousands of miles away, and in uncertain times, her smile gave me a sense of refuge. She felt like home.

When I was called back to Washington, I hated leaving, but duty called. I promised to come back for her. I bought a bright red Japanese-translation pocket dictionary, and I used it to write to her every day. I wasn’t even sure whether my mimicking of hiragana and katakana, or my grammar, made sense to her. Then again, I began receiving back letters from her in broken English and simple Japanese terms I could decipher. My heart felt as if I would float away like a freed party Balloon, just imagining her dimpled smile.

I kept my word and flew back to properly ask her parents for their daughter’s hand in marriage. With their blessing, we went to the embassy in Tokyo. After three long years of dealing with her immigration status, I was eventually able to bring her Stateside.

Finally, having her back with me was surreal: We returned to my hometown in the Keystone state, having that Root Beer float I had always told her about at my favorite soda fountain, and getting her to meet my family for the first time... She smiled, bowed, and did her best to adjust to a new world. It must not have been easy. I used to pretend not to notice, but she would sob at the kitchen table while she wrote back to her family late at night, after I had gone to bed. Not much I could have said, so I let her be.

With limited funds, we searched for a house, and my wife was adamant about having access to nature. City life was not where she felt comfortable. She was completely in love with this rundown farmhouse near the Amish acres. There were even Pawpaw and wild Plum trees on our property.

Like every good idea, it was hers to refurbish this centuries-old shack. The agreement we had was that I took care of the outside, and she took care of our living quarters. She never left anything alone, so she was always building and brightly painting all over our home and fermenting god-awful things in cedar barrels with Bamboo hoops. I couldn’t stand how noisy and messy it always was once I came back inside. The darn Roosters by the barn and the stray dogs she kept rescuing were more civil than my...

*Sigh*

Well... It’s now painfully quiet. Every creak in the floor could be heard. Light doesn’t seem to seep into our home at all anymore. Everything is grey. She was just starting on a new project to revamp the Sunroom next to the kitchen. Being a disciplined military man, I like order and cleanliness. It irked me to see the half-completed part of our home, with all of her rainbow-colored paint cans scattered everywhere. I want to clean it all up now, but... I'm afraid that the more I do, the more I might start forgetting her.

Admittedly, as the honeymoon phase subsided and she assimilated enough into our culture, I gradually stopped taking the initiative to get to know her: I assumed that upkeep of our relationship, or any small talk, wasn’t necessary. I preoccupied myself with my own career and tasks, leaving little room in my regimented daily schedule for her. I regrettably made our marriage very one-sided with what I rationalized as being ‘best for us’…

Since I earned a living through making necessary sacrifices as a man should, I was an entitled sourpuss. I constantly scoffed at her passions and interests. I mean, while I put food on the table by working tirelessly, she painted rocks, watered jungle plants and kept rescuing more injured animals! She had too big a heart for her own good! Since I was like a candle burning on both ends then, I wasn’t being understanding of what she really wanted in life, other than the one I thought I was providing.

Due to both of us being so set in our ways, tension eventually grew between us. I wanted to be less condescending and prickly to her, but I didn’t know how. I figured that once I had earned enough until retirement, I could then be able to relax and be more patient with her again. Then I thought we would get out of Pennsylvania, travel the world, like I always promised, and continue to grow old together.

I didn’t know we were on borrowed time.

I wish I had poured my heart out to her about how much she meant to me and how much I love her. I didn’t mean any of the hurtful things I’ve said in the heat of the moment. Instead of apologizing, I hid behind my battle-hardened persona, being the know-it-all, putting in the last verbal jab in every disagreement, and nitpicked at her rollicking ways.

Do you know what the last thing I remember saying to her was?

“I saved you from that pig farm, brought you to this most abundant country in the world… And you still refuse to just let things be! Not everything needs to be painted in rainbows! Not every stray needs to get saved by you. Why can’t you be more normal, for God sakes?”

I am so sorry, my dear.

I took your gentle, loving heart for granted.

I failed to prioritize our relationship.

Now it’s too… Late…

This routine of self-flagellation, sulking, while I drown in shame and regret, has been paralyzing. I stopped fetching the mail. I don’t go out of the house. I stopped taking care of myself. I have been in the same clothes since she… I… I just wish that I could follow her into the afterlife. This world that we created together is no longer the same without her here beside me.

I was flooded by all of these feelings I did not know how to process, so I lashed out like a petulant child and began throwing her belongings all over the house.

“Why did you have to leave me!?” At mid-throw of one of her painted river stones, my knee gave out, and I pathetically tumbled backwards, smashing into the kitchen cabinet with all of her ferments.

I sat.

Hurt.

On the floor.

Defeated.

Nothing mattered anymore.

That was when I heard a subtle hiss behind the cabinet. The pessimist within me hoped that my dramatic stumble had broken a gas line of sorts, and it would be a matter of time before the noxious fumes overtook the kitchen.

“Good. So be it. I am ready.”

…The fumes that would send me to my maker, never came. There was a sweet malty smell instead, which was emitted along with the hiss. I annoyingly got myself up, brushing off the broken glass, picking up whatever dignity I still had left, and decided to inspect what was inside the cabinet.

“Oh Lord, take me now. What is this mess?”

Inside the cabinet where I have mocked my wife for having her ‘Mad-Scientist-Projects’, several glass and ceramic jars were leaning to their sides. One of them, with Mahogany-colored liquid and olive-like balls inside, continued to bubble and hiss. On top of the lid was a faded orange sticky note with her writing in hiragana, with a time stamp. Fetching my reading glasses from the medicine drawer, I was a bit rusty, but I vocalized the words until they made sense to me.

“う…U…うめ…Um…Uma…No, it’s Um… Ume…U-mee-um…Something. It’s Ume. It’s got to be!”

The hiragana part, I got, but the last part was written in kanji, which was not my department. 酒…That was too many chicken scratches of characters to fathom for a simpleton like me. Until my hysterical episode just now, I completely forgot about all of the pickling and fermenting my wife used to do. This must be one of her ‘experiments.’

Strange how I didn’t want anything to do with any of her projects while she was still… Alive… Now, I felt compelled to at least decipher what her writing meant. It kind of felt like it could be some sort of a message from her.

That very thought brought back a sense of energy and focus that I haven’t had in quite some time. I limped over to the bookshelf in the study and dusted off my old Japanese-to-English dictionary. The pages were weathered, and the crimson leather cover has now faded to a rusty color. With my reading glasses resting on my nose, I flipped through where うandめwould be, and I found the translation to be Plums.

“Plums? That's it?! Oh, what the hell!”

I wanted those two hiragana words to mean something more from her, but they’re just lousy Plu… At mid-cursing, I galumphed back over to the large glass jar and took a closer look at her orange sticky note. The date she wrote…

“Wait. This. These Plums. They’re made on J… July. Twenty thi… I remember now! Th… That’s our anniversary…”

I couldn’t contain myself. All of my armor came off. Curled up into a ball, I wailed. She made this last July, with our Plum tree in its peak. Our tree fruits in alternate years. My wife already knew her diagnosis then. She knew this would be her last harvest. Then why would she bother to…

“Wa… Was this… Plum sake meant for me?”

As if to respond, the jar full of fermented fruit liquor hissed in a high note. I began to giggle at first, then gradually, I bellowed with uncontrollable laughter. Oh, Haru. You sure know how to make this sourpuss smile again.

Her name was Haruko- meaning ‘child of spring’. Such a fitting name, since she brightened every place, she went. Even when she was dying a year ago, she still anticipated all of this to remind me of the happiest day of my life: Our anniversary. How did I get so lucky to have been with such an angel like her?

I decided to carefully unscrew the top of the Plum sake container and pour a bit of it into my coffee cup. I hobbled over to the half-completed sunroom, where the new orchids bloomed. Maybe it’s a few months early, but I raised the mug above my shoulder, looking up at the brightly painted ceiling.

“Here’s to you, my darlin…”

The windows weren’t open, but there was a gentle breeze.

I could have sworn I smelled Plum blossoms.