I sniff words the way other people sniff flowers.
Roses can be red, but not read.
Violets are rarely blue, but most of us can’t say the same.
I still cry, like every awful thing that I ever lived through just happened, but also–
I still laugh, like every good thing I ever witnessed just happened all over again.
I’ve noticed more and more of the laughter in myself lately and I know it is because I am holding more and more joy in my arms. My old happiness is a glass flower vase, still broken into shards, but I have begun to think the flowers survived the fall.
I have begun to think I survived the winter.
I still don’t know what to do with the vase. I can’t put it back together. I’ve cut and calloused my fingers trying, and it’s only made it harder to hold my violets.
I can’t throw the glass out. It means too much, and I like to look at it and think of the colors of the garden it grew. I like to look at it and think of how strong it was to hold so much of my world, how brave it was to be so transparent.
I like to look at it and think how lucky I was to have such a gift.
And some days, I like to let the broken pieces cut into me a little bit. A penance, I think, for knowing that I dropped us both and only one of us shattered.
But it’s hard to cut when my hands are already full of violets, and lately they are always full of violets. A vivacious bouquet of purples, never blues.
And a rose from yesterday, because it turns out it is still a very kind place.
And I find myself whistling again, and I heard myself sing again, and it turns out my own hands make for a very nice vase.
And it turns out, I’m happy.
It’s been so long, I was worried I’d forgotten how to hold it.