The branch of the heavily blossom laden tress outside my window is sway and bounce in the breeze. A particularly heavy gust pulls and rips the white petals so that they flutter and swirl to the ground.
I am comfortably propped up in my bed so that I can enjoy the spring view. My daughter Winifred brings me a glass of water and carefully places it on the table which fits snugly over the bed. She sits by my side, holding my hand. The doctors say I may die soon. This knowledge has brought out a tenderness in Winifred which I have not seen for many years.
Together we watch the delicate petals dance and fall downwards. I look at my daughter. Her small hooked nose reminds me of my mother, the pale green eyes remind me of my husband.
"Winifred..." So much to be said, so little time.
"Yes mother"
"Winifred darling, I am so sorry, so, sorry."
Sorry? What for mother?"
And I can't say it. I cannot find the words to say that I am sorry. Sorry I have not been able to help her find the contented life that I enjoyed with her father. Sorry that she has become so angry, so bitter at life. Sorry that I am dying and I am leaving her all alone.
Instead I ask her to open the top drawer in my bedside table. "There's some things in there I want you to have." I tell her.
She takes out the framed photo and a box of confetti.
The photo is of my wedding day. The happiest moment was when the guests threw rice, flowers and confetti over us.
Winifred looks at me, looks at the box of confetti, looks at me again before ripping open the box and throwing the white soft petals high up into the air.
We laugh, like we have not laughed together for years, our hair, eyelashes, and face strewn with confetti.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.