Emily

It rained here yesterday. This tiny park with its tiny, muddy lake and its tiny, ugly ducks survived torrents of rain yesterday. Nothing really changes, but everything is just a bit cleaner. It still smells like rain, and I suppose that green and clean smell beats the usual stench of drainage pipes and bird droppings. February rain does leave this part of the world with a bit of a chill, and I feel more than a little inadequate in this silly blue sweatshirt of mine.

At one end of the man-made lake, there is a man-made dam. Its not a dam made of metal and concrete, but the tall, grassy hill could never hope to pose as a natural structure in an environment clearly shaped by human hands. However, I favor a dam like this on a day like today. Gravity favors this dam, and the grass up here is clearly drier than the gravel path down below. The path below is littered with years of human history that surfaced from the lake during the storm, and I wonder why I try to find nature in a place like this. I can see the overcast sky and I can hear the remaining irritated waterfowl of South Georgia, but the rest of the park is so very human.

Sometimes I try a little too hard to escape people and maintain a separate identity. I have friends, but I never have the time to be with them. On a day like today, I could actually make excuses to see them, but I don't. I always feel awkward and clingy, and then I always find myself wandering around here. Alone and just a little pathetic.

Halfway across the dam, I spot a patch of color against the endlessly green grass. It's a mix of oranges, whites, and reds, and it stands out like a lightning rod between the green earth and the gray sky. On top of this dam, someone left a bouquet of flowers; the clear wrapping still surrounds the delicate plants and it looks like yesterday's storm simply forgot to crush the tiny blooms.

Underneath the plastic, tucked between the stems, there is a slip of paper. It isn't the fancy stationary used by floral shops. In all honesty, it looks like a quickly scribbled note torn from a spiral notebook, and it looks very out of place among the perfectly selected blooms. It would make sense to leave the note alone, but since it doesn't make sense to leave perfectly good flowers in a place like this, it can't hurt to read the note.

I pick up the remarkably dry note with care. After reading it, I'm a little disappointed. I expected something more. I expected something gorgeous and romantic. Instead, this odd little note simply said, "Emily- See you in hell." Of course, all of my ill-placed fantasies about a lover leaving flowers that survived a fierce storm died with that one statement. I just stand there, glancing between the pristine flowers and the scrap of paper.

"What the hell are you doing?" a voice calls behind me. I turn around to see an irate looking redhead with a cigarette in her left hand and a scowl on her face. I stare dumbly between the note in my hands and the ginger glaring at me.

"Emily?" I ask. It obviously wasn't the right question, and her gaze darkens further. By this point, the gloom remaining after the storm can't compare to the look on this stranger's face.

"No," she replies shortly. She puts the cigarette in her mouth. "Name's Stephanie. An' I don't know what you're doin', reading that note. It's just a piece of paper."

"Exactly. It's just a piece of paper. What's wrong with me reading it? Emily some friend you got pissed off at?"

"No." This stranger's short, clipped responses grate on my nerves, and I just start saying things that I'll probably regret later. It doesn't help that I feel that I've done nothing wrong by glancing at the note.

"Is she your sister? Cousin? Friend of the family? Ooh, is she your girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I get it. Are you breaking up with her? 'See you in hell' is a bit abrupt. Was this your secret meeting place? Did your parents not approve of your socially controversial relationship? So now, you break up with her with flowers, and you can't even do it to her face? You might as well-"

"She died. Two days ago. She was in a car accident, and she died. You've got a wild imagination, but you're way the hell off track!" She's angry now. Her eyes are black with her rage and she's pointing at me with a hand that ends in the lit end of her cigarette. Her voice is harsh and clipped, but I can't blame her. She's silent and glaring at me again, and my throat is tight when I try to speak.

"Why...why leave flowers here? Isn't there going to be a funeral or something?"

"Yeah, there'll be a funeral. In Chicago, since her family's there. Then she's being cremated, so there won't be a marker to visit. I don't have the money to fly up there. I barely had money for the damn flowers."

"Maybe if you stop smoking," I suggest, trying to add so levity to the situation. I fail, and she just looks at the dwindling cigarette and tosses what little remains of it down the hill to join the rest of the human trash. "So why leave the flowers here?"

"We've known each other forever," she mumbles distractedly. "We used to come here everyday when we were in school. It just seemed right. I didn't expect it to storm so badly yesterday." She looks around me to see the intact flowers, and her face almost hints at a slight smile. "I can't believe they're still here."

"That's what I was thinking," I say. I crouch down to tuck the note back into the mass of petals and stems. I stand back up and turn to look at her, and she seems softer somehow. "Think they'll still be here tomorrow?"

"Oh, I don't think they'll ever leave. Not now." Her response troubles me, but she's already walking away. She's patting down her coat, and she's probably in search of another cigarette. The wind starts to blow and her dark red hair flies in the wind, looking almost like blood for a moment. Everything begins to sway in the powerful gusts. I look down at the plastic encasing the flowers, and it hasn't moved at all.