I feel like the flowers in this vase
He just brought’em home one day
Ain’t they beautiful he said
They been here in the kitchen
And the waters turnin’ gray
They’re sittin’ in the vase but now they’re dead
I’ve had a vase of dead flowers for 12 years. They are dried roses — the first dozen from our first date, the ones he brought when he proposed, a few from our first married Valentine’s Day, a few from random bouquets, and now a few from his funeral.
They’ve been in the same vase all this time and moved with us the half a dozen or so times we moved, always careful to take care of them. They were often the last thing loaded in the moving truck, placed in the front seat in the care of whomever was riding in the passenger seat.
They were so fragile, too fragile to be packed in a box with the rest of our stuff.
I thought dried roses were beautiful. If dried well, at just the right time (and dried upside down of course), they preserve their shape, layer upon layer of petals, almost like they’re not dead at all. Even though they really are.
He ain’t feeling anything
My love, my hurt, or the sting of this rain
I’m living in a hurricane
All he can say is man ain’t it such a nice day