I hit snooze twice (maybe three times). The smell of rain humidified the air. I’m convinced rain in Los Angeles should be considered a snow day, a break from the routine, a break from working hard. A day to stay under the covers while the world spins madly on. Even my dog Gladys didn’t want to undo the tight ball of her body and breathe the fresh morning air.
Contemplating snooze a fourth time, I heard a knock on the door. Doubtful it was my house, I rolled over. Another knock echoed the chilling room. What the hell do the neighbors want at 8am? I dragged myself out from the depths of my comforter and headed to the door. Gladys didn’t budge.
Soaking from the rain, bright yellow sunflowers held just under his chin, I was shocked to see him. Apprehension had me concerned what I was wearing; my polar bear pants that I’ve had since high school, a sleeveless t-shirt from a previous decade. Not sexy at all. No, opposite of sexy. I brushed the front of my sleeveless to straighten the wrinkles then opened the screen door.
“I didn’t know you were coming.” I’m an idiot.
He didn’t say a word, just stood there in the rain.
“Anthony, I’m sorry…”
“I love you more.”
There was no time for apologies; we were too busy taking off wet clothes and polar bear pants.
It’s such a sweet memory, the one of him bringing me flowers after a fight. Seems so long ago. The memory is difficult to label and file. It’s bold. It’s the memory that keeps coming to the front of the line and wants to be remembered. Always. You want to know the loneliest about having cancer? The loneliest part was that I didn’t have it, I loved it… and now, he can’t bring me flowers on a rainy day.