"An empty vase is prime real estate, too, you know" by Gianna Caesare
My empty vase sits on the dresser,
remembering times when it was filled with roses—
roses that have long since wilted.
Dried and shriveled falling petals,
dropping gently in a path that leads me back to you.
That recounts each memory.
Each rich red petal, a moment with you.
The moment you loved me.
The moment you shouted.
The moment I cried.
The moment we kissed.
Not all memories are good memories.
And after all, not all flowers smell sweet.
And a bouquet is never as alive
as it was the first time each flower was cut
from the ground, from its life force.
Soul and soil are just one letter apart after all,
and I’m not sure if it’s the you or the I that is more vital.
If you snip me from my ground
but replant me in your soil,
place me in your vase, water me
then I could grow, too. Grow with you and for you.
We could grow together, two flowers plucked from different grounds, placed in one vase, sharing the same water and sharing the same life. Nevertheless...
Stepping away from my fantasy, I look at the empty vase on my dresser; I think of you.
Sometimes you put roses in my vase.
But today, you have not—it is just a cylinder of desolate glass.
But I can’t be upset at the vacancy.
Rather I am excited, because I know you will fill it up again and the flowers will go through the usual cycle— blossom/live/wilt/die/petals fall/shrivel/crumble
and just like the roses, I’ll do the same all over again.