The Pain

The next day, I went back to the flower shop.

This time, I bought flowers first.

A small bouquet.

If he had been delayed yesterday, I could forgive him.

Maybe.

But he would need to accept the flowers and my temper.

The owner made the bouquet himself.

He arranged each stem carefully, as if every flower had a proper place and he alone could hear it.

He looked more charming when working.

A girl nearby seemed unable to look away.

I could not blame her.

But I was here for someone else.

The owner gave me tea again.

And cookies.

I sat at the same table, flowers in my lap, waiting.

At first, I was calm.

Then annoyed.

Then anxious.

Why was he still not here?

Had he forgotten?

No.

No, he would not.

My fingers tightened around the bouquet.

The wrapping paper crinkled.

I noticed and quickly smoothed it flat.

The flowers should remain beautiful.

When he came, I wanted them to be beautiful.

A sharp pain struck my head.

I froze.

Then another.

Needle-thin.

Then splitting.

The world tilted.

The flowers blurred in my lap.

The owner’s tools clattered inside.

He came out quickly.

“What’s wrong?”

“My head,” I whispered.

It hurt worse.

Worse.

Like someone had opened my skull and filled it with screaming.

The owner lifted the card from my chest.

I heard him calling someone.

“Hello, is this Daniel? Your mother is at the flower shop. She suddenly has a severe headache. Has this happened before? Should I take her to the hospital?”

Daniel.

My son.

His voice came faintly through the phone, but I could not understand the words.

Because the images had begun.

Headlights.

A crash.

Glass.

A hand falling limp.

Blood spreading across flowers.

A siren.

Someone crying.

So loud.

Too loud.

A voice inside me shouted:

Remember.

Remember.

How can you forget?

I did not want to remember.

I did not know what I had forgotten.

Only that it hurt.

The last thing I saw was the silver-haired flower shop owner reaching for me.

Then everything went dark.