I Can Buy Myself Flowers

Gosh, that Miley is a hoot. Somehow her song has penetrated into the afterlife, and I think as the kids say these days: I’m here for it.

I died before I could find true love. I never thought that would be the case for the intrepid May Rose. Adults would call me a free spirt when I was a kid, running through our neighborhood never causing trouble but always looking for adventure. I guess I carried that freedom a bit too far.

My friend and I would joke that the day our divine mother was passing out partners, we were forgotten. Most days, I loved my freedom. Nobody telling me what to do, where to go, when to eat, how loudly I could laugh. (Like a hyena, for those wondering. Even a snort if someone was lucky.) I loved the life I built for myself because it was mine. For me. By me.

Yet some days, the depression would sink in. Don’t get me wrong, I had a rich life. I took myself on grand adventures. My favorite might have been cruising the Panama Canal and marveling at the grandeur of humanity while also acknowledging its brute force. When I died, I had in my will that a handful of my travel pictures should be buried with me, along with some childhood trinkets I kept into early age.

People wondered why I never had children either. “Who will take care of you when you’re old?” As if that is the purpose of bringing life into this world? I was never called to it. Never wanted it. Some days as I admire the grass around me, the sun and sky hovering around my spirit, I wonder if the solitary was always my destiny. My fate. My curse. My freedom.

I was born an only child, always asking my parents for an older brother. I learned later that isn’t how biology works. I got used to creating games to keep myself entertained while my parents worked. I retreated into writing. Into invisible friends because they were easier to maintain - and dismiss - than real-life ones. Academically inclined, I kept to myself in college and graduate school. It was the sacrifice that allowed for so many adventures.

And here I am alone even in death. Sure, the souls drift through the wind and keep a kinetic energy in the cemetery. But I don’t know them. Just as they don’t know me. Even in death I cannot break free of the need to be alone, to be with and for myself. Why? I still haven’t figured it out.

So, to say I am shocked someone has left me flowers is an understatement. Of course, it wasn’t someone I knew. It was a stranger passing through, thinking they were being clever by leaving roses on Rose. The buds are dry, wilting, losing color. Losing steam. But never losing their power. The simple gesture gave me hope that even for one second I am somebody. I am not forgotten. I matter.

Because while I bought myself plenty of flowers while alive, these are the first I have gotten in death. And even accidental flowers, I now realize, are better than no flowers at all.