Lilacs in Bloom - Part 1
For each fallen petal, a seed grows anew,
And it takes a little rain for the lilacs to bloom.
The clouds weigh heavy as sky prepares to weep;
A summer glow follows the release.
Winter returns, guided by autumn;
Darkness arrives from an endless bottom.
Then the heart calls out, suddenly aching,
And the lilacs bloom for another taking.
***
Everything began with the death of Amy Murray, wife of Samuel Murray, former businesswoman, piano player, tennis enthusiast, friend of wealthy housewives, and victim of cancer.
Samuel Murray, frequently called Sam, watched the funeral attendees converse with each other quietly as her coffin was lowered into the ground. It was late June, though the air had the heat of mid-August, and the sun shone bright overhead in the cloudless blue sky. Many people had shown up- all friends and family of Amy. Sam was an only child with both parents no longer alive, and with little other family and even less friends of his own. He found it difficult to interact with all of these people, many of whom he hardly knew, none of whom he supposed he had a relationship with. With Amy, he had been part of a crowd that he would have otherwise been alienated from. He sensed that he would never talk to most of these people ever again.
Sometimes they came up to him to give their condolences. He thanked them but never held a conversation. His desire to be left alone was evident to everyone.
He resented himself, on and off. Even with more than enough money at his disposal, it still wasn't enough to save Amy. But even if he had saved her life, he couldn't have saved their love.
A bird fluttered overhead and landed in a tree less than twenty yards behind him. It was a cardinal, its redness standing out in bright contrast to the emerald leaves. Sam watched it for a while, mentally absent from the wrap-up of the funeral. Another cardinal hopped along the branch into view. The pair danced around each other before flying off.
There was a child talking. Sam searched for it and saw a small boy from a distance, likely about seven years old, nearly hidden behind several pairs of legs. His heart ached even more now, not just for Amy but for what he sacrificed for her...
His legs wanted to give out. He would fall to the ground, next to where she lay. But he was strong- always had been. He would persevere.
Several more people made small talk with him. When they were finished, Sam left.
Once in the car he loosened his tie and sank into his seat with a deep sigh. What now? He had nothing to drive him anymore, no goals, no motivation. Just working out and working on projects.
It was time for a drink.
He drove. No music filled the car, nor did the clock receive a glance. He arrived at a popular local spot just outside of town: Russo's, known for its pizza and bar. Sam parked and headed inside without much thought.
Not many pizza restaurants in town were busy at two o'clock on a Saturday, Russo's included. Sam was one of three patrons; two older men sat at a booth, deep in conversation. Sam went straight to the counter and plopped on a stool.
A blonde woman wearing a flour-covered apron walked out of the attached kitchen and threw a small towel on the counter by the register. He had seen her before on occasion, as he had come here for pizza many times. She smiled at Sam briefly before removing her apron, hanging it on a hook by the passage. Underneath she wore a black blouse with a hint of more flour. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and when she let it free it fell all the way down to the small of her back.
"How can I help you?" she asked him. Her voice was soothing and sincere.
"Whiskey, please. Neat."
"Coming up."
While she did her job, Sam closed his eyes and listened to the news coming from the television. Something about a new hotel that was just completed downtown, then something about politics. He lost interest.
The server returned with his whiskey. "Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome." He felt her eyes on him for a moment. "Have I seen you around here?"
"It's been a while- a few months."
"Hm. I feel like I just saw you this week."
"Maybe on the news. My wife just, uh, died."
"Oh my god... I'm so, so sorry." She was at a loss of words but did not leave him, clearly wanting to say something else.
"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I didn't mean to be so blunt."
"No, no. Please." She looked at him with concern. "Samuel Murray, right?"
"Yeah. Sam."
"Sam. Nice to officially meet you, in spite of the circumstances."
"You too... Miss?"
"Stephanie Russo. My mother and I own the place."
"You think you could get me another whiskey?" he asked her, having finished his. She nodded and soon returned with another.
"Do you want to talk?" she asked him. "I mean, I understand if you don't... hell, I don't even know you, but... you know, sometimes it helps."
Sam said nothing. He wasn't used to people talking to him like this. Instead, he just looked at the TV, his eyes glazed.
"I'll take that as a no. Well, let me know if you need anything, okay?"
Sam nodded before taking another drink. Stephanie was nice, and he considered talking... but God, he felt awful. It was only what, two-fifteen, and it felt like nine? He stood up abruptly and made his way back to the car.
Once home, the rest of the day was spent in bed. As the night arrived, he fell asleep from exhaustion. It had been a long several months.
***
Four months ago, during the first week of February, Amy's cancer had reached stage four. They had just gotten home from the hospital, and the only thing Sam would really remember afterwards, which would stick with him for a long time, was one of the most heated arguments they had ever had. It was about something that they couldn't change.
Early in their marriage, Amy had convinced Sam to get a vasectomy. Though he had always pictured himself having kids, he was young and madly in love- blinded by it. Sex with Amy was more than good, and without the possibility of children it relieved stress and added a lot of pleasure. A short-term satisfaction.
Then she became frail and began losing her life. She and Sam still had sex, but it was different. They knew she was going to die, and Sam knew he had lost his reproductive ability. His chance at rebuilding life after Amy was gone had been severely distorted. They didn't have children together to continue her line. He couldn't have children with another woman to continue his own line. He felt like an abomination, and he told Amy this.
Amy, frail and losing her life, did not like hearing this just after hearing that she had stage four cancer.
Thus, an argument ensued. It was the one argument that wasn't made up with sex, the one argument where Sam and Amy ended up sleeping in different rooms that night. They later gave apologies, but it was never the same. Life was now all about giving Amy what she wanted until she was gone. Even sex, at the end, felt like an obligation, sometimes almost like mourning. It wasn't her fault, and he always knew that. They were both victims of the circumstances.
But now Sam was filled with regret. Not angry regret, not necessarily, but the regret that makes it both difficult to fall asleep and difficult to get out of bed.
***
Nearly three weeks after meeting Samuel Murray, Stephanie sat in the manager's office of Russo's. She preferred the quieter days, like today, where families or college students occasionally came in to get a couple of pizzas and head back to wherever they came from.
Her boyfriend, Adam, had just stopped by to say hello during his lunch. He was sweet, but didn't have anything going for him; she wasn't sure she saw a future with him, but you never really know, you know?
"Stephanie," called her mother from down the hall, "your friends are here to see you."
Stephanie stood up and patted herself somewhat clean before leaving her office. In the hallway stood her mother Lucia, a sixty-year-old Italian woman with a lingering accent and firm but affectionate presence. Stephanie smiled in appreciation and gave her a pat as she passed her. The front had gone from zero occupants to three; lined at the counter were Stephanie's three best friends.
First was Kim Collins, looking ten years younger than her actual age of forty-two. Her distinct light and wavy blonde hair fell just past her jawline and complimented her white and orange sundress. A pair of gold hoops snuck out of her hair by each cheek, and her purse was just about the fiftieth Stephanie had seen her use this month.
Second was Nicole Hennigan, showing a slight smile that was sincere but carried the weight of single motherhood. The other three were always jealous of her hair, which was a natural dark chocolate color and naturally appeared straightened. She brushed a strand of it out of her face and sighed lightly.
Third was Emily Brown, the one that was always making them laugh and who was never afraid to be herself. She was well known in the community for her very strawberry blonde hair, and today it was tied back into a loose ponytail. Her shirt showed no cleavage, which was rare, though it did have a greenish-brown paint stain around the ribcage. She had a few small tattoos on her forearms: a flowering vine on her left and several miscellaneous inklings on her right.
"Hey girls!" greeted Stephanie. They returned it with the same enthusiasm. She pulled out four glasses and filled them each with water.
"Slow day?" Nicole asked.
"You know it," said Stephanie. "Where are the kids?"
"With the sitter. Thank God she didn't ask for a raise after last week." Nicole sipped her water and shook her head. "Those kids have way too much energy."
"How about Nick?" Stephanie asked Kim.
"At a friend's house. They've been enjoying their summer break by staying indoors and playing video games."
They all chuckled. "You remember how boys are at that age," said Emily. "Always doing whatever you don't want them to do."
"It's not that he's playing video games that bothers me, it's just... why doesn't he do anything else!"
The conversation was interrupted by the opening of the front door. In walked a tall, fit man with short, brown hair and a thin beard. He made eye contact with Stephanie and smiled but didn't approach the women. Instead, he looked around at the décor; pictures of famous patrons, local artists that performed out back, pieces of art that Lucia used to collect, and so on.
"Who's that cutie?" asked Emily, licking her lips.
"That's Samuel Murray," said Stephanie in a hushed voice. "He came in a few weeks ago for some drinks... just after his wife had passed away."
