The Flower

In the evening, a little before they retired to bed, something odd happened. Dring! The telephone rang, just a single ring tone. May be it was a nuisance call, or perhaps just a trick of the night.

In the sitting room by the telephone there sat a small plant, it never needed much attention, it had an unassuming beauty. Nothing special, nothing fancy. With its green furred leaves and small pale blue flowers, like the eyes of a young boy - their boy, who, without warning, had been admitted into hospital for some tests.

He noticed the wilting leaves. When he went to answer the 'phone. Before going to bed, before taking his regular pills. A little bit of water for the plant. Then to bed to wait until morning. Its condition is bad.

'' That's how flowers talk'', said his wife, matter-of–factly, who saw him watering it.
He looked at her in a strange way. What did she mean?

They hurried away early next morning, arriving before the doctors had even started work. 'The flower has spoken clearly, ' he thought and kept his thoughts to himself. His wife also kept her silence, what she had said the night before about how flowers talk.

''We would have got in touch,'' said one doctor as they were putting on their coats.
''Any news, doctor?'' she dared ask them first.

''How can I say this… the news is not good'' the younger of the two doctors continued, looking sadly at them. He looked so young that he could have been their son's elder brother. He had blue eyes too and was only slightly taller than their boy.
''What’s wrong, doctor? ''
''Unfortunately, our initial fears have been confirmed.''

During that day they learned the bad news, in bits, piece by piece. Like a swelling avalanche which they could see coming their way slowly, soundless, determinedly. They saw it approaching, they did what they could, asking all around them, even casual bystanders in the hospital corridors – calling relatives who had a similar experience, even friends of friends, until by evening they had become completely overwhelmed. The sheer mass of the thing worked over them, swallowed them up. They were cut off from their ordinary surroundings, numbed and deprived of thought, and most probably the pain as well.

The next day and the day after, they were back in the hospital again. This went on for a month. Twenty nine days, to be precise. Acute leukaemia. In intensive care. They were not allowed in. They watched him through the glass, under the white lights.

Its small leaves stirred somewhat on this particular morning. Or was it an illusion. Then the next morning again. Every day until late they paced the hospital corridors. They watched from a distance through glass, under the white lights.
"His immune system you know ... if only his immune system would respond ", a well-meaning doctor or visitor would sometimes come out and share in their despair.

One day about midday a nurse approached them ominously. His wife had a sense of foreboding. Yesterday they had allowed them in. They were even allowed to kiss him. She had said nothing to him, nor he to her. He understood, part of him guessed, but neither spoke. He had only kissed the boy and hurried away. The boy was asleep, oblivious to his visitors.

“I am so sorry. Unfortunately…» whispered the nurse breaking in mid sentence. The two parents hesitated, the silence opening up. "The doctor will speak to you just now." The father came to his senses first.
"What could he say?" thought the father. "What could they possibly want from us?" Then it all became clear. The sister's long, awkward silence. The great unspeakable appeal, perhaps. His mind rushed to ancient sacrifices: Iphigenia, to save a pack of good for nothing rogues. In this case at least lives would be saved. The soul transplanted to bodies that would embrace it with love. His spirit revived.

"Unfortunately impossible ..," repeated the nurse. "As the vital organs failed donation is not an option we can pursue. »
"Why? How?” He tried desperately to hold onto something, anything, some small meaningless words... then he realised there was no hope.

He continued to go, furtively, to the hospital daily. Until one day he met his wife there, trying to hide behind a pillar. She was looking through the smoked glass as if she was expecting developments. He put his arms around her and said, «Let's go home, love. It's pointless".
«And let’s not come here again," she replayed, as if, by these words, they were sealing a gentlemen’s agreement.
The flower in the house shed its petals in the midst of their worries. It wilted and died within a few days.

April – July 2008

Translation: Stephanos Gee