Flowers on Sunday

Sunday night is here, and here I am writing you.  Which you I’m writing to changes with the inner weather, but I always hope you’ll see yourself in the edges of the words – and of course, the things I don’t say.

The flowers are my way of making this some place I want to be.  In the picture, it’s my little room, but it’s not. The window is looking in and inwards.  I’m traveling somewhere as real and made up as any wish fulfillment dream – a mash-up of actual light and distant hope.  No one else knows the difference if I take this journey or not.  Not even you.

One of the staff at Trader Joe told me I’d done a good job with the flowers I chose.  That made me feel so good, and at the same time very self-conscious.  I’m hard to miss, ogling the alstroemeria in my leather coat and polka dot mask and indescribable hair.  Maybe it was just something to say because we kept crossing paths – first by the flowers, then by the butter, then by the tea and coffee he was re-stocking.  Such is my life – first flowers, then butter, then tea and/or coffee.

There are so many blunders that I have run out of time to remedy.  Things that can’t be fixed with flowers.  But every week, I keep trying.

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