Late Bloomer

by Mazey Eddings

“Flowers are thirsty little sluts. Got it.”

“Are you—” He dangles a limp wrist at shoulder height,

I’d rather suffer debt a thousand times over than wish for change in the woman who saved me.

“Nah. I hope photos of me end up scattered in ratty boxes all over the place. And I hope I look ridiculously happy in every single one. I hope they make people stop their flipping to look closer. To wonder what I had to be so happy about.”

Sometimes I hate myself. I hate my meekness and my boldness. I hate my fear and my audacity to try. Sometimes the hate digs its roots in so deep, it feels like it is me. I hate that hate. I have endless grace for everyone in the world, but none for myself. Why am I not allowed to make mistakes? Why does my compassion stretch to strangers but stop at my own front door?

“Sure. Every garden needs a hoe, right?” I say back. “Tell me where to start.”

Grief is a strange beast. It can lie dormant for weeks. Months. You can go through the motions of life and truly convince yourself you’re healed and fine and will actually survive the heartache of loss. And then, like the flip of a switch, it rears its head and snaps its jaws, hungry and ready to devour you whole.