Joie de Vie

I guess she really needs me.

Most people don’t, or they fumble me with frightful ease, and that’s sad. Because I’m boundless, and today, she’s the job.

It feels warmer this morning, and I’m glad to be here. She traces a fingertip on the underside of me, like a lovely, fluttering breeze. A knuckle glides over my torso, on the way to its lofty destination. The pond remains empty today, a good thing.

She caresses my face, and her endless vigil bathes me in tangerine and violet—two of my least favorite hues-but I make do.

He was such a good one, always out here at this time of day, with his careful attention to the blooms. He dug out the weeds, dribbled pearls of tea onto the earth, made a beautiful home for creatures small and tall.

The day he presented me with a lily from the windowbox, she held me, lips screwed up a half-smile, bewildered, then uttered the briefest of thanks. I longed to be free and real, to sniff every rose and violet during the brief life that my kind lives.

Instead, she wore me occasionally, until the day after it happened. When I had the chance, I basked in the warmth of her skin, the beatific smile when she regarded me. When she received a compliment about my singularity, I thumped with the steady beat of her heart.

It's been a challenge to elicit that grin again, but I’m confident I can make it happen.

At least the worst of it is over. I thought the others would never leave. Not a ring of laughter. pop of color, or light-hearted shriek from even the little ones, only muted patters of their miniature Mary Janes and Oxfords on these steps to their quaint cottage in the woods.

But she never looked at any of them, or anyone else. Just nodded, eyes downcast and shadowed. No light, like she’d rather be with him. But I glimpsed him, just beyond her elbow, a fingertip hovered above her overheated, sallow skin. I knew what was coming.

Then she slipped me around her neck that next day of his service, of the activation. I’d overheard one of the most respected elders, ancient and rich in wisdom and loss. She reminded one of my sibs about grief, evergreen and unstoppable, in its growth inside a heart.

I didn’t understand what they meant. Be who you are, fill them, so they know the depth of you in their souls.

I was lost, and I wanted to be another forgettable charm. If I couldn’t be a real one, a flawless dasher, its wings a perfect match to the lavender blue bouquet from her sweet elderly neighbor, I wanted none of this. I longed for attention and adoration, like a resplendent, lifeless stone.

But I’m not.

So, I rest here, above her heart, a weak influence, unable to will her to add those lovely forget-me-nots, to the other flowers he grew. Anything to make herself happy again, the way he wanted-proof of life, and his love.

Then again, maybe she thinks it’ll hurt too much. But the pain is the evidence, and the reward, if she’d just keep me here. I caught my reflection in the stained glass window, as she led the procession into the sunny afternoon. I’m not prideful—he’s the black sheep of the family.

But I belong here, and we make a breath-taking team, this widow and me.

Yet, this is what they don’t understand. It’s different, but I’m always here.

And it's the same for my sibs. Just because we exist in a different, or, what do they call it-realm, sphere, form. Sheesh, I don’t know. Anyway, we exist this way because they don't believe anymore. In any of us.

The world became faster, and so cold, in no time. Take a pill. Try this drink. Lose weight overnight, sleep like you did when you were an innocent. Look younger. Quick fixes for what was never broken, what was meant to happen. But, it’s a fact- if you want flowers and rainbows, you gotta deal with the puddles and the mud.

But all that gloom isn’t the whole story, or the end. It’s just another clue that my siblings—grief, love, passion—are immeasurable, essential, and necessary. We’re so much more formidable when we stand together, when we value and acknowledge each other.

But she doesn't want to feel anything now, so this is gonna be tough.

I’d probably be better off on some guileless pre-teen girl, or some seen-it-all grandma, someone who’s still thrilled to own me. A gentle embrace, an influx of elation, as I spread, well, you know, my raison d’ȇtre.

I wait, and then a lucky break. I sink into that gorgeous notch, a serene, silken landing. I swirl and flutter under her ministrations. A fingertip catches my showstopper wing, a bit less showy with this golden finish, and light illuminates me in all the right places, a gift of so many feels, as my siblings call it.

I wish she’d fold a hand around me, just for a millisecond, to activate me for maximum effect.

The saddest ones, like her, almost never do that. I doubt that it’s one of those other black sheep they wrestle, like fear, or my distant cousin, despair. They just don’t know, and most of the time, they never learn how much I can do, how much I help them unlock what they possess.

The little ones, precious diamonds and emeralds in their own right, get it. Those babies tug and squeeze a girl like me, to the point of near destruction. My sibs have horror stories, and I wince when they share. The broken ones get reimplanted and dispatched, because they’re truly irreplaceable, so many emotions to remake this world.

She tugs on the clasp again, a reconnection attempt, as I cling to my restful spot, his former cherished point of infusion.

Then, the pond refills, just south of the curve of her luscious lip. He was exquisite, and I feel it again.

I remain within this pair, steadfast and infinite, when they think I’ve vanished.

And I’ll be here, as long as she holds onto us, with every other good thing that never dies.