Daddy issues || h.s

4.6

To the roots, my friend, to the roots of the flowers.

Houses turned to trees and asphalt to gravel as he dove. The landscape turning into a smear of green and blue colours as it flew by him. The once so strange turns were now carved into his memory, the silvery scars so deep he would never be able to forget them.

To the roots, my friend, to the roots of the flowers.

He remembered the way her breath had tickled his skin as she whispered the words to him, how the butterflies inside of him had batted their wings and the flowers in his chest had made it hard to breathe. Only the ghost of them remained. The butterflies were dead, their wings having been cut of with razor blades, and the flowers were burned down, chocked by the black smoke of the cigarettes in his pocket. He didn't need them any more, he didn't need to set his lungs in fire or hear the roar of the waves in his mind, for he was going to find her.

The metal gates snaked up from the grass like iron serpents, coiling their tails around each other, baring their teeth as they prepared to spit venom at him. They pulsated with life, trying to keep him out, but the moment his trembling had touched them, they stiffened. The serpents fell to rest, and their tails were no longer tails, but iron bars. They flung open, and he felt the white silk ribbons tug him forward.

The sun gleamed in the broken windows of the greenhouse, and as he got closer, it flowed into his eyes, blinding him. He lifted his hand, shielding his eyes from the golden rays, and then he saw her.

Her hair was in her face, and she was bent over a working table. Her delicate hands were cutting the stems of flowers, and arranging them into a bouquet. Small cuts scattered her fingers, as if the rose thorns had loved her touch so much they had clung to them so hard they had scarred them. Her eyebrows were knitted together in concentration, and she pressed her rosy lips were together as she worked. He recognized some of the flowers: Cyclamens, forget-me-nots, heleniums, Carolina jasmines, zinnias, raspberries and purple hyacinths. They looked so sorrowful where they lay in her hands; unaware of the privilege it was to be held by her. Oh how he envied those flowers. He would do anything to feel her soft touch again, to have her fingertips caress his skin like a soft summer breeze, or to have her lovely hands touch his face. And now he was so close to her he could almost hear her breathing through the glass.

The trees in his eyes longed to stretch their green branches towards the blue skies in hers, but she didn't look up, she didn't see him. She just wrapped a white silk ribbon around the bouquet and started a new one. This time she chose agapanthuses, asters, bellflowers and pink carnations, white carnations, ferns, olives, lisianthuses and lilies of the valley, and she wrapped another silk ribbon around it.

She never looked up, she never saw him, and so he turned around and walked away from the window.

The flowers rested in her love bitten hands, the silk ribbons soft against her skin as she heard the footsteps.

"Oh Francis, I was just about to come in for a cup of tea," the words fell from her mouth, and a smile played hide and seek on her lips when she turned around and saw him. The smile was never found.

"Oh," she said, and suddenly the wounds of love weren't only on her hands.

Green trees stretched their branches towards the blue skies, and the roof of the greenhouse broke into a million pieces as they grew out of control. The sun asked to come inside, but he was an iron-grey sky, heavy clouds draping his insides, blocking out the golden rays.

"I got your letters," he said, his voice like broken glass. There was a sea in her eyes, their blank surface reflecting the broken crystals between them. She couldn't speak. All she could do was keep the waves inside of her, but they were too violent, too strong, and suddenly they broke free.

"I'm so sorry," she said, "I'm so sorry." Tears heavy with sorrow rolled down her cheeks, and when her knees gave away beneath the weight of her regret, he was there to catch her.

His arms wrapped around her shaking body, and he could once again feel her soft skin against his. He didn't have to dream any more, he didn't have to long any more, she was here, in his arms, and suddenly he was home. The sun shone though the clouds inside him, and its golden rays filled his mind with summer as he felt her heart beat against his chest.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry for leaving." She sobbed, he voice no more than a whisper. "It was supposed to be my grand tour, an adventure, the start of my new life. I was supposed to see the things I had dreamed of my whole life, but when I did, all I could think of was how much I wished I had seen them with you." He held her as she cried, his arms like a warm shield around her. He took her face in his hands, stroking away her tears with feathery touches. Their eyes met. Green against blue. Trees against skies. Soul against soul. And then he decided.

"Then let's," he said. "Let's go to Norway and see the northern lights and the midnight sun. Let's go to Amsterdam and rent a houseboat. Let's go to Rome and get thrown out of museums for making out in the corners. Let's go to Berlin and dance in our hotel rooms while singing at the top of our lungs. Let's go to Paris and laugh in the rain while our eyes swim in paint. Let's disappear, but let's do it together this time, because I don't know if I will be able to lose you again." His iridescent words floated from his mouth like soap bubbles, gently landing on her cheeks, drying the last of her tears with a loving kiss.

He smiled at her, and suddenly, as if it had heard its name, her smile came peeking out from the corner of her mouth, knowing it had finally been found.

An old man stood in his window, a cup of tea resting in his ageing hands as he watched a boy and a girl walk across his lawn. Their hands were intertwined, bound together as by a white silk ribbon, and their lips played upon each other like rose petals dancing in a slight breeze. The wind lifted their hair, golden sun and dark brown earth blowing about their faces as they smiled at each other.

Clouds were gathering in the horizon, and a couple of red leaves waltzed beneath their feet. A storm was coming; the old man could feel it in his gout stricken bones. A storm was coming, and it would rip the cherry blossom tree up by its roots.