Letters pt. 2 (concerning flowers)

Dear crying woman whose name I do not know,

You are not crazy.

I was almost finished working my night shift at the coffee shop when you walked in. It was almost closing time when you walked in. The downtown gas lamps were glowing soft orange light and I was daydreaming and half asleep when you walked in.

You walked in.

You had been drinking, like absolutely everyone else downtown at midnight on Saturday, and you walked in to get some coffee and find a taxi. Do you remember this? You probably don’t remember any of this. You had been drinking and you told me you were on your way home. Then you lowered your voice, as though we were sharing a secret, and said that once you made it home you were going to sit in your living room, surround yourself with your daughter’s stuffed animals, turn off all the lights and try to fall asleep.

Does that sound crazy? You wanted to know. I told you no, that’s not crazy, everyone needs some help to fall asleep.

Then you laughed a relieved laugh and seemed to like my answer, so you told me more and more. You told me that you loved really bright colors, because your daughter loved really bright colors. You told me that you loved stuffed animals, because your daughter loved stuffed animals. You told me that you especially loved brightly colored stuffed animals, which made perfect sense. You told me that other people thought you were crazy. Then you laughed again, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. It was a sad laugh, if there is such a thing. I don’t know how else to describe it. You were laughing, but you were sad.

You’re not crazy. I told you again. Then your laughter broke off a bit and your eyes got teary. I pretended not to notice. You ordered a black coffee and a muffin and I *forgot* to charge you. You left me a tip I knew you could not afford. You called me kiddo and told me I was a good worker and when my manager walked by, you told her that you loved me. You said, I love this girl, and pointed to me. Do you remember this? You probably don’t remember any of this. You had been drinking, but I sincerely appreciated that anyway.

When you walked away I started wiping the pastry crumbs and soy milk splashes from the counters. The shop was nearly empty. You were stirring milk into your coffee. You had your back to me. I heard you crying.

Let me tell you something about me. I never know what to do. You were crying and I didn’t know what to do. I was wiping the counters and your back was turned to me. You were stirring milk into your coffee and talking to someone who was not there. You were crying. You were in a deep conversation with someone I couldn’t see, and I just stood there wiping the counter —the same spot— over and over. Let me tell you something about me. I hate myself. I hate myself because you were crying and I didn’t know what to do.

What could I have done?

It was the end of my shift when you walked out. The heavy wooden door closed slowly behind you, its hinges making a long, drawn out creak until it finally merged again with the doorframe. You walked out and my heart felt heavy. You walked out and my heart felt dead. A woman who had been sitting at the table next to you walked up to me when you walked out.

You walked out.

The woman who had been sitting next to you told me that you were crying. She spoke to me in a very quiet voice, even though the shop was empty. She had been listening and she told me you were talking to someone who was not there. She said that you were talking to your daughter. She said, I think her daughter is dead.

She had been listening.

What could I have done?

I kept wiping the same spot on the counter over and over. The woman who had been listening stood with me but we didn’t say anything to each other, we just watched you through the floor-to-ceiling windows. What could I have done? You were still crying. You were standing on the other side of the glass, beneath the glowing gas lamps that swathed you in faint orange rays of light. Drunken partiers dressed up in nice clothes staggered in and out of the bars all along the street, but you didn’t see them because your head was hung down. What could I have done? I watched you on the other side of the glass. A long line of flower vendors who had just closed their stands walked by you on their way home, each of them carrying buckets overflowing with calla lilies, roses, daisies and tulips. I was watching as you cried on the other side of the glass. I really wanted you to see the flowers, they were so bright and you loved bright colors. But your head was hung down. Your daughter was dead. I was watching a procession of flowers moving right in front of you. Did you see them? Maybe you did. You were crying and I really wanted you to see the flowers. But you were on the other side of the glass.

I want you to know that you are not crazy. I want you to know that I am sorry. And I want you to be okay.

What could I have done?

I’m always on the wrong side of the glass.

Love,
Nicole