PART 1
By Haron Wachira
As evening settled after Terry’s wedding, G.’s gaze lingered on the dry rose flowers, carefully preserved in silica gel and framed in the family room. They had been there for many years.
Earlier that afternoon, seated beside Timothy on the weathered wooden bench during the festivities, a previously dormant volcano had erupted in her soul, after many years. The seismic activities of the eventual eruption had been triggered by the curiosity that drove her into peeping into the gift Timothy had brought to Terry and what she saw: a set of dried rose petals; similar to the set she had preserved in silica gel and framed; which Timothy had sent G. many years back, before Terry.
She had told him that she had seen his gift to Terry and that she had preserved the set he’d sent her years back, framed them, and hung them on the wall of their family room.
“How do you explain them?” Tim had asked.
“Art,” she had replied.
It was the truth, though much more than that. The dry rose petals on the wall were a silent tribute to a past G. couldn’t quite let go of. They were memories of a teenage love, fleeting yet profound. She had written him a letter of gratitude for the gift, but his reply never came. She knew then that he was transitioning from high school to university; from teenage to adulthood. And she imagined him swept away by the allure of brighter, more beautiful girls.
Over time their connection faded, replaced by other tangible interactions. But it was an anti-climax she never forgot. She didn’t harbour any resentment, however. Instead, she embraced a different love, building a family with Dan. It had been good, largely. She had not gotten to know Tim well enough to compare him with Dan. She had not kept track of Tim. So her life with Dan was all she knew.
Yet, the flowers remained, a silent testament to what once was. A secret memorial to a love she had released but never forgotten. Tim lingered in her heart like the bittersweet, poignant memory of a lost loved one, initially painful, but softened, leaving behind a sense of melancholic sweetness.
Together, seated on that weathered wooden bench during Terry’s wedding, they had figured it out. Yes, it was the post office that failed them.
“Bloody Posta!” Tim had yelled. She could have joined in. But what difference would it have made? Timothy was unreal; a past, fleeting memory. Dan, on the other had, was real. She shared a home with him. She had children with him, including Terry, their lastborn. That said, she could not deceive herself. She had a split past, like someone who had suffered schizophrenia— a real one and a virtual one.
For many years her virtual love had been dormant. But erupted today. She would never again raise her head in their family room and look at that picture the same way…. Looking at it set her on fire; created wild yearning….
“No, she couldn’t allow that. She rose, limped to the wall, and unhooked the “art”.
But where would she keep it? In the shelving above their wardrobe. That would have been a good place. But her weight and the pain in her hip could not allow her to step on a stool to reach up to the hideout. Then there was the problem of the empty spot on the wall. It would undoubtedly raise questions, casting shadows over her carefully curated facade….
She heard the gate open, a car door shut, and their sitting room door open. She knew it was Dan coming home. Typically, she’d have risen to meet him at the door. But today she froze on the sofa seat, clutching the framed picture in her hands. She didn’t want to incite a conversation around it. While it hung on the wall, the framed “art” did not elicit any discussion; it was seamlessly integrated into the decor. Unhooked and cradled in her hands, it was a raw vulnerability laid starkly bare. She draped a shawl over it and rose to greet her husband.
He was drunk, and the realization immediately set off a revolt within G. He had taken up drinking recently…. No, that wasn’t exactly accurate. He had slid back to drinking recently, and G. had reminded him of their earlier quarrels over drink. It was stress, he tried to explain, as a result of the bank loan they had taken to stock up their chemist shop.
In the quiet depths of her mind, G. revisited the memories of their early years in marriage, tracing the lines of admiration that had once adorned her thoughts like delicate lace.
In those days, she had marvelled at Dan’s effortless charm at work when she visited him soon after she graduated from university and had lots of time; the way his laughter danced in the air like musical notes, and his eyes held a glimmer of endless possibilities. His passion ignited hers, fuelling her dreams with the fervour of shared aspirations.
He was a car salesman when they met. He had delighted her with rides in expensive cars while he did test drives with customers. Soon she started working as a chemist shop attendant, an apt deployment of her pharmaceutical knowledge. When they got married, or rather, hitched in together, Dan funded her to start her own chemist shop and the business thrived. Eventually, he joined her there.
But it was through G. that Dan had become a regular churchgoer. She had previously attended a fiery charismatic church but to accommodate Dan’s “preference” for a more moderate form of religion she took him to the church of his parents, Anglican. And they settled there and had their marriage officiated and blessed in church and they brought up their children as nominal Christians.
Then he started drinking. And they quarrelled over it, each time when he came home drunk. It almost ended their marriage. So he stopped. He wasn’t a Christian in the serious sense that Tim was. He went to church because G. wanted it and his parents had brought him up in church because it was important that their children be baptised. Most of all he stopped drinking because he wanted peace with G. Thus, theirs became a decent, nominal Christian life—like the lives of most people in their circles.
“You are drunk,” she now said.
“That is not a greeting,” Dan said, holding her body against his. She let him. He was not a bad man.
“I would like to greet you in a better way, my dear. But we shouldn’t allow a relapse.…”
“Enough,” he said. “Just today, to celebrate our daughter’s wedding.”
“Who with?”
“Same guys you left me with,” he said. “George and Mike. We hadn’t seen each other in a long while.”
G. Let the infraction pass. But the hurt etched itself in her deeply.
“Hungry?”
“No,” he said. “But I see you have been eating a cake.”
“Mabaki (remnants), from Terry’s event.”
He picked up a small piece from the cake box sat on the sofa seat and soon dozed off.
G. Carefully draped a shawl over her inebriated husband, the same one she had previously used to conceal Tim’s cherished framed rose flowers. Her eyes shifted from the gift to the person, the juxtaposition of the beautifully displayed gift against her husband’s disheveled state accentuating the stark contrast between Tim’s elegant gift and her husband’s drunken stupor.
Before going to bed she returned Tim’s gift to its place on the wall.
Things in G.s marriage seem to be unravelling. Do you think this could be the reason behind G. returning Tim’s gift in its place on the wall? Will Dan start behaving and become the man G needs him to be?
So many questions! Stay tuned for the next installment: The Mystery of the Dry Flowers Part 2.
Disclaimer: All characters, locations, and events depicted in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is purely coincidental. This work is created for entertainment purposes only and does not intend to portray real individuals, organizations, or occurrences.
Haron Wachira 