By Devananda Edamadathil
I was dressed in my black ruffle-sleeved gown. He was dead. A man who grew many-hued flowers was being bidden adieu by folk wearing black. The flowers they clutched took me back to his garden. Calla lilies, fragrant peonies, snapdragons in all colors of the rainbow, and classic geraniums were the best picks. The indomitable queen of the garden was his white rose. There were five of them in the bouquet he had gifted me when I had just moved into the neighborhood, close to his haven. I had soon become accustomed to finding them at my doorstep on holidays, occasions, and days when the weather was good. We had become friends. I had set about planting in my backyard, which I hoped would one day become as vibrant as his. “Which one do you want to start with? I bet you’d go for velvet roses,” he’d guess. And I’d say, “I want it to be a surprise. Don’t sneak. The first flowers would be for you, I promise.”
My thoughts shifted along with my gaze onto his wooden coffin, which reminded me of his teak shed, where he ushered me to see an exotic bloom freshly plucked. Where he knocked me out with a digging spade. Where I was found in blood, clothes ripped apart, assaulted. Where I realized that hands that can grow roses could just as well rip them apart, like bits of paper. Later, he’d wanted to sort things out ‘peacefully.’ I agreed and closed the chapter over some soup that I’d prepared.
I had been waiting for the funeral to end, to have the last word. After, I laid the bouquet I had brought onto his grave. “White oleanders. From my backyard. You see, velvet roses are appealing, but oleanders are the perfect ones to make soups best served cold.”
By Devananda Edamadathil
Daaaaamnn....💥
♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️
🤩🤩🤩
👏👏👏
👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻