The vase is a simple one that stood on our dining room table for all of the sixty years that we had been married. It’s cylindrical, about two and a half hands high and three quarters of a hand wide. Its thick walls were finely crafted from a deep cobalt glass that seemed to radiate a friendly, sometimes capricious, glow when the light from the dining room window sparked it. It was given to Ann and me as a wedding present and had become a touchstone, part of our lives, and a beautiful member of the family. Ann would fill it with fresh flowers every week—often red and white carnations that were “our” flower--the sign of love that we adopted early in our courtship. It saw blossoms of all colors, shapes and sizes; some from our fine garden, and others from faraway tropical jungles and distant isles. It celebrated every major event in our lives--anniversaries, engagements, weddings, graduations, and all of our birthdays.
After Ann’s funeral, after the callers had gone and left their casseroles and cakes and all sorts of food that I would never eat, I was alone in my mourning. I looked at the vase containing the last flower arrangement that she had done. It was a joyous display of callow lilies whose white funnels and yellow, life-giving stigmas reached toward the sky; toward Ann’s now safe spirit. I didn’t have the heart to throw out this last living vestige of her.
I visited the vase, the shrine, every day and prayed for Ann. I watched as the stems sagged a bit, and the blossoms became limp. The water had evaporated and filled only half the vase. It contained an ugly gray-green cloudy mixture of rotting flowers, as age had sucked the life out of the once fresh blooms.
One day I found a small pool of water around the vase’s base. I noticed that it had developed a slight fissure in its side, near the bottom. It hadn’t been dropped or hit, so it must be a function of its age. Or it felt its usefulness over now that Ann has passed away. Glass is full of stresses and, I suppose, one just ran amok. I watched as tiny drops of water seeped out of the crack, and ran down the vase’s side, sliding onto the tabletop. I put a pad under the vase to protect the table’s finish.
Over a few days, more water droplets, the flower’s life fluid, their blood, fled the vase. I left for a few days to visit my daughter. When I returned I found the vase empty of water save a tiny residual pool. The petals had fallen and the leaves turned to a mottled brown-black. The flowers and vase were dead.
I feel like my vase. There are cracks and fissures in my spirit and body. My faculties are slowly leaking out of me. First my memory devolved. Then there was the cancer operation. I didn’t smoke so I don’t know where that came from. I’ve had two knee replacements, undoubtedly due to my long distance running days. I have difficulty getting up out of a chair. And the other day I lost my balance and fell. Thank god there were no injuries. I ache in strange places, and walk slowly and cautiously. I’m slightly hunch-backed.
I’m not bitching about my lot as tiny drops of life run out of me. Like the vase, I too have honored both special occasions and the common occurrences that mark everyday life. I’ve had a wonderful and happy life with Ann. She is no longer here to celebrate the beauty of our flowers and us. The vase is empty now. There is no one here to fill it. It is dead, but not yet buried. I can’t bring myself to throw away this symbol of our life together.
I too am a vase, waiting for the last drop to hurry out so I can join Ann.