Café Sunshine. But the sun didn't shine on Molly, sitting beneath the invading lights, with her floppy hat on,hoping no one will notice her silent tears. Contemplating pushing away the flowers, and their sickeningly sweet smell reminding her of her only love, Robert. How those flowers must have smelled at the funeral across the seas. Or were there flowers? He was all alone there, so how would one know if the French gave him a proper burial? He was a poet, exploring new horizons, getting in touch with his spirit in other places, other worlds. If only she'd gone with him! Damn her sensible mind! Not being able to throw caution to the wind, not even for love. And now she's lost.

Sipping her life through a straw, watching it suck. The bad times seemed to be rising to the top like melting ice. Diluted dreams and those awful flower memories. They reminded Molly of the first time she met Robert. Happy times, yet the hurt was still fresh in her mind.

Reminiscing to Robert's kind eyes, she could almost feel the fresh bouquet of flowers he had handed her, full of tea roses and lilacs; her favorite.

Everyday was spring on Molly's kitchen table as Robert brought a new flower everyday to replace one that was dying so that the flowers, like their love, would never die. An empty vase now sits on her kitchen table, it too in mourning. The pungent smell of decay was too much for her to handle as she sobbed when she disposed of the only thing she owned, given to her by Robert. (He was never much into material things, but now she wishes he had compromised his beliefs, just a little, as should have she, so she could hang on, if for just a short while longer.)

Head over heels she had fallen. Now she seemed to have landed off cloud nine into the cold harsh reality of death. Dead. Over and over in her mind reads the telegram. A few short words all leading up to the same thing. Robert was gone, along with Molly's life. What now was there to live for?

Feeling to hole in her heart grow larger with each sip of bitter lemonade, Molly contemplated again those flowers before her. On an impulse, she flung the vase into the air with one swift motion. A large crash startled the silence that had been mounting. Questioning her own sanity, Molly stood up on wobbly legs (as though a newborn colt had taken over her body) and gingerly picked up the flowers amongst shards of glass. Being able to fill one void would be at least a step towards healing. It would be spring, yet again on her kitchen table.

04/09/2000

Author's Note: This little ditty of a short story came to be through an english class I took in high school. We were asked to write based upon a painting... Enjoy! :) ~Amber

Posted on 04/18/2005
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