Tubs of Scented Flowers

He’d visit her every spring. Even if at no other time of the year because the visit hurt him so much, he saw her then to ensure she had her tubs of living flowers. He ensured there were different scents and many colours. He didn’t know how much she could see anymore. He knew she could still smell, though. He knew her caregivers, the “Angels”, would describe the beautiful flowers he had painstakingly arranged. She would sit outside on her balcony in her special wheelchair with her tubs of flowers in the summer afternoons, enjoying the smells and warmth with a big smile on her face. It wasn’t just the warmth of the sun she felt.

Her eyes were often closed, but he knew she was still listening when he talked. Sometimes when he talked, she’d almost laugh. He thought there was at least the start of a smile. She couldn’t talk anymore, but he knew she understood. He could tell by the way she’d perk up at his jokes. Sometimes she’d be upset when he would start to leave: a single tear would slide down her cheek. He’d try to cheer her up. He’d tell her not to play too many tennis games, or not to wear out the other residents with late night bridge games.

They used to play bridge in a large group in their younger years. At the end of the evening, the bridge games would turn into poker. Most of the group were gone now. Those left were too few or too sick to play even one decent hand of bridge. Sad, but that’s the way life is. At least these two could still be together sometimes. There were many years of love, laughter, sorrow and joy between them.

Life. Family activities. Sameness, but differences. Closeness of a different kind because they were not married to each other. Their relationship was familial. It was a friendship, but it was much, much more. She had married his older brother during World War II. But the love amongst all of them had been growing since high school. It was as though they had known each other forever. She had known his wife since high school. While the men were away in service, the women volunteered together. They were in the Winnipeg Great West Life Troupe who entertained the military troops in Southern Manitoba.

All of them grew as friends during their marriages, through child rearing and vacations, joint family dinners and holiday gatherings. The younger brother moved to the same city to be closer geographically to his dear older brother. The two men and their wives shared dreams as a young generation. They had seen new inventions; revelled in their own power to make changes in the world; and raised their children to love God, family and country. They survived innovations that were not as wonderful as they originally seemed. Hell, they had even laughed at their own folly. They were, however, astounded and amazed at the many new ideasand technologies. They couldn't always figure out how to use the new technologies, though. Somehow, somewhere, suddenly, they felt they had outlived their usefulness.

Finally, they sat on the sidelines to rest as life swept swiftly by them like a flooding river. They retired to their own homes. He didn’t go quietly. He kept railing at the injustices in the world, kept reading the newspapers, kept telling his children and grandchildren they had to make a difference in the world at large. He continued making a difference in his own small corner of the world. He took physical care of his brother, her husband, when he became ill. When his brother died, he shared his brother’s widow’s sorrow.

He’d visit his brother every year on Remembrance Day to clean up
the gravesite and place a poppy, but only his eldest daughter knew that. She only knew because she followed him one time because she worried about him. She never told him she knew where he went: it was his own secret that they never discussed. He’d disappear for about an hour on the morning of November 11th, then come home to sit quietly for some alone time, remembering.

When his wife became terribly sick, his sister-in-law was already on her own downward decline, so he cared for his wife alone. When his wife died, he was heartbroken. It was so difficult to carry on. His daughters, son, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, friends, all tried to help. They were terrific, in fact. But life was just not the same. His heart missed the long-time love of his life. No one could remove that pain. No one filled that void. He went through the day-to-day motions of life in a fog. His wife died at Christmas. The winter was cold and lonely: it reflected his horrible grief.

Spring came. As usual, he painstakingly arranged the flowers for his sister-in-law. He visited her with the tubs of scented flowers. Somehow, by cheering her up, he cheered up. So, his annual ritual continued for a few years. They both received joy from this one perfect act of love. It was tougher each year, but he received help from his loved ones in preparing the tubs for his special project.

Then he, too, became very sick, needing help for his basic living. He could no longer prepare the tubs of flowers. He couldn’t visit her. He didn’t even remember her because of his illness. He couldn’t function alone, so was admitted to a nursing home.

She passed away the year after he became so ill. She only had one spring without his flowers. Did she miss them?

He continued gardening at the nursing home: he won an award for the biggest zucchini and had a ball showing it off. He passed in the fall after his sister-in-law. There were tears on earth and joy in heaven as they all came together again. The families left on earth continue placing flowers on her grave and at his resting place too.