Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day

 Just another day I am surrounded by flowers. It is always the same. But love I have learnt from observation always ends this way. I envision the lone strangers embrace after the procession fades. The songs are always the same too. Haunting melodies, I wish I could move. I hear the tears desperately drop to the desolate ground, parched petals wilt towards the water but most of them are fake, so it is useless anyway, a bit like this place. Where love leaves unrequited and apologies go astray.

 I lie here under the sun, feels like eternity observing everyone...but it is still so dark. All the trinkets they bring, toys, candles, porcelain things. They express so much familiarity but still end up lonely. When the gates are closed and the only sound is a wind chime, I could almost breathe a sigh of relief.

 The day before Valentine’s Day started with the usual silence, followed by the creaking of heavy gates, protesting in all their pity. Church bells chimed in the distance and I knew it would not be long. I thought I could feel somebody stir beside me but the machinery often made me perceive movement. It was closer today and the dust disintegrated around me. It did not take long for the first car to arrive. I counted each ignition end and I wished for a moment one would continue to hum. I remembered how it felt driving in the sun. The ground did not heave with rain so I presumed that is what it was doing today.

 As I heard footsteps approach I almost felt my heart race. Could it be my turn for fresh flowers today? I did not care that it was the day before, flowers without necessity mean so much more. I dreaded tomorrow and what it would bring. The footsteps grew unanimously and although still close their tread was too torturous to be mine. I had been here too long. My steps are sad now but a lot lighter and less in-between. They come with little steps too. There is no sadness in these and I wish the packed earth was not in the way so I could see their smiling faces. Even just for a moment, I hear their awe and suffocate a giggle when a parent scolds them for touching a matted teddy. I imagine them looking at it in horror, as if something so close to death could ever be dazzling. But to the child, this unknown place is fascinating, a treasure trove of artefacts. “That does not belong to you, “I hear a stern voice say. “Then who does it belong to? There’s nobody here!” Silence and they are on their way.

 Before the procession begins I hear the sniffles settling in. You get to know all the ways people cry, except for the ones who do it discreetly, it is like trying to hear a pin drop, but that is also something you become accustomed to. There are hiccups, anguished moans, wafting whispers of sorrow, occasionally there is the fake cry, the one that says I should be doing this because everybody else is but most of these will come from children. They all blend in together and play a tragic tune around the words of a celebrant or priest. Today it was a priest. Then the real music began and I almost felt uplifted, exhumed from this place. Today it was bagpipes. I especially like bagpipes, because they drown everything else out. I like the rebellion they bring when staying here is so stifling. They even drown the silence of petals dripping on wood, which is an indication that they will soon stop and in a place where everything ends I wanted this to go on. But soon the footsteps would fade and the cars would drive away. Occasionally one person will remain. They are usually too silent to hear, they fit in so well, probably because they want to.

 I had this happen to me when it was my turn for a procession. Bagpipes were also played. It was my last eventful day. I could almost see the pink petals swirling above me before I had to say goodbye to the sun, and to everyone. I was surprised at some of the voices I heard, they had so much time to leave me with words. Even with six feet of unforseen distance I knew one remained. Then the sun began to fade. I could feel his sweet breath lingering on the edge where mine had once been. We did not need to speak, even if it was a possibility. He stayed there until the sun had set and left me with no flowers, fake or fresh. But he did leave the words. “I love you.”

 I knew I would hear this a lot tomorrow, flowers would be replaced, and letters would be left with no address. The machinery hummed into the night, soothing me with the memory of sleep. It was so close I almost felt alive, vibrating in a womb, softly being moved. When it ended like everything does, I was not born; I was still in a box. But there was something different about this Valentine’s Day. The gate still creaked with pity and the withered flowers were replaced. Footsteps flurried with necessity and the silence was still so much more severe when they ceased. But this time an old man was beside me, a girl that had been here too long for gifts. I could not see him but his eyes penetrated the darkness, searching for me. I could not touch him but I knew he was closer then he had been since a time I could breathe. I could not smell him but the fragrance of his flesh filled every orifice I once had. I could not taste him. But it was like his kiss still lingered on lips that would never again exist. I could not hear him but the silence was shared. I knew he was there, and I was no longer aware.