He noticed that the light was brighter than usual and clambered out of bed to reach the window. Twitching back the curtains his eyes were assaulted by the brilliant white carpet of snow that had been laid during the night. It smothered everything in the garden. Even the trees and bushes had several inches of white froth on their branches, dragging them down with the weight of it all.

‘That’s odd’ he thought, rubbing his eyes, ‘I don’t remember hearing anything about snow on the forecast last night. Still, at least I don’t have to go to work today.’

His foot touched an object on the floor and he reached down to pick it up. It was an empty tumbler with the merest trace of whiskey at the bottom. He held it up to the light and watched it sparkle as the sun danced over its patterned surface. It was part of a set he and Kirsty had been given as a wedding present. He tried to imagine how many times she had drunk from it or washed it up at the sink. The tumbler slipped from his grasp and lolled lazily on the floor, a tiny dribble of liquid rolling out to moisten the carpet.

The trouble was he didn’t even remember bringing the glass up to bed with him.

He was drinking far too much for his own good these days. It was Just a way of blotting out reality. He left the tumbler where it had landed and reached for yesterday's shirt. Time to get out of the house.

     'I wonder what Mum is doing today?' he said to the wallpaper.

It was a small cafe hidden away in the backstreets. Its yellowing interior filled to the brim with the rich aroma of ground coffee. Stuart sat opposite his mother at a table near the door. Between them was a collection of green leaves in a carrier bag.

     'It's very kind of you,' said Stuart, 'but I don't think I can cope with any more plants around the house.'

      'Nonsense,' said his Mum, 'you can never have enough houseplants.'

     'But I always end up killing them.'

     'All the more reason to keep trying. You've got a few days off to catch up with things.'

Stuart sighed resignedly and took a sip of coffee. The cafe was practically deserted apart from an old couple in the far corner. He wondered what he and Kirsty would have looked like if they had grown old together.'

     'You're thinking about Kirsty again, aren't you?' said Mum, placing a kindly hand on top of his. Stuart placed his cup on the saucer below and looked at her. 'Yes. I can't help that,' he said. 'We never really had a chance to be a proper married couple.'

     It's been nearly a year now, since she died. Stuart.'

      'Eleven months and ten days to be exact. Almost as long as we were married for.'

      'Oh, Stuart,' a tear formed in his Mum's eye. I thought you were starting to get over it. If only you could let go.'

      'It's just so bloody unfair, you know?' he muttered.

      'I know, love,' Mum soothed.

     'Though sometimes...I think she's still with me.'

      'How do you mean. Son?'

      'Well...like she's just in the next room or outside weeding her beloved garden.'

      'Perhaps it's her way of telling you she thinks you need looking after,' said Mum. 'You've never been one for keeping the place tidy have you? Even before you met Kirsty. I wish you'd let Mrs. Keen come round and clean up for you once in a while.'

      'No, Mum.' said Stuart, irritatedly. I'm not having that old witch prying into my private things...or Kirsty's things.'

      'She's not a bit like that,' said Mum.

     'Remember what she was like at the Funeral? One sherry and she took me on one side and told me to have a good cry. She said it was better that I did. That bottling up your emotions never did anyone any good. Silly Cow.'

      'Stuart!' Mum scolded.

      'As if sobbing into Mrs. Keen's shoulder is going to bring Kirsty back.'

      'She meant well.' Mum studied her empty cup.

      'I can do without her homespun philosophy thank you.' said Stuart. ' I also can do without her going through Kirsty's wardrobe looking for things that will fit her.'

      'You can't keep the place like a shrine, love.'

Stuart remained silent.

      ‘Well,' said Mum. getting to her feet. I must be off. Will I see you at the weekend?'

      'Just tell me one thing. Mum,' said Stuart. 'Was it like this for you when Dad died?'

      Mum reached out and squeezed his hand. 'Don't be silly dear. See you on Sunday usual time?' With that she made her way to the door, avoiding the gaze of the old couple as she left the cafe.

Stuart gazed at the plant gloomily.

As he was putting his key into the lock something on the doorstep caught Stuart's eye. He bent down and picked up a bunch of tiny blue flowers with yellow stamens. Suddenly the sun broke out from behind a cloud and lit up the whole scene. It seemed to Stuart that the flowers were the bluest, most perfect things he had ever set eyes on. He pushed open the front door and went inside. More junk mail on the mat. The second post seemed to come later and later these days, and it always brought junk. Must have a word with the postwoman, he thought. He quickly flipped through the envelopes and threw them on to the hall table next to the phone.

Stuart began to wonder who could have left the flowers. Perhaps the postwoman fancied him. That raised a wry smile, she wasn't really his type. If she was attracted to him the feeling certainly wasn't mutual. He made a face in the hall mirror. Perhaps children had left them. But why? He couldn't think why anyone would want to do such a thing. Carefully, so as not to damage them, he put the flowers in his pocket.

The phone began to ring. Stuart picked up the receiver. '9251, hello?'

      'Hello, is that you, Stuart?' It was Callum, Stuart's college pal. He had trained as a clergyman and now looked after the parish from the local church.

      'Callum? How are you. How are things at St. Mary's. Sorry I haven't been down for a while.'

      'Look...,' Callum seemed hesitant, I don't quite know how break this...I think you'd better come down here. We've had vandals in. They've made a terrible mess.'

      'Kirsty's grave - is it...?'

      'You'd better come, right away.'

It was the first time in months that Stuart had visited the church. He had expected it to be a little overgrown. Nothing prepared him for what he encountered there. The graveyard looked as if a tornado had struck it. Gravestones littered the snow. Statues of angels had had heads and wings knocked off. One sarcophagus had been broken into and its lid lay beside it, smashed in two.

Callum fingered his dog-collar and sighed. 'What makes them do it? Peer pressure? The influence of glue-sniffng or drugs? I don't know how we can possibly afford to put all the damage right. We had to let the insurance lapse. At least the church was locked. Who knows what they would have done in there.'

     'They're animals,' said Stuart. ' I don't know, Callum. perhaps they don't know any better.'

He picked his way through the debris towards Kirsty's grave. 'Dear God,' he cried. The stone was tilted at a dangerous angle and someone had spray-painted a red pentangle on it.
Callum stood at Stuart's elbow. 'We can clean up the mess. I've organised a crew of volunteers to help. You'd never know that anyone had been here,..' He tailed off as Stuart turned to look at him.

     'Don't you see?' cried Stuart. It's not the vandalism. I should have been here. I should have looked after her final resting place but I couldn't even do that for her'

     'Not even I can be here 24 hours a day, Stu.'

     'Once I've been here once in all this time. Pathetic isn't it?'

     ‘If it upsets you to come...'

Stuart glared at the stone and suddenly everything about it annoyed him. Its slanted position, the paint, the very fact that it had to be there. His well-aimed kick at the headstone finally laid it flat and he stormed off towards the church with an alarmed Callum in tow.
A group of elderly ladies, armed with scrubbing brushes and rubber gloves, had gathered to begin the clean-up operation. They eyed Stuart with unconcealed distaste. He let them look. At that precise moment he couldn't have cared less what they thought of him.

The vestry was small but cosy. Callum had lit a file in the hearth that was popping and crackling fiercely. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a fine 12-year-old malt and two glasses. Stuart looked at Callum sheepishly from his chair by the fire. 'Perhaps I shouldn't after that outburst.'
     'Nonsense,' said Callum, 'All the more reason for a dram. One won't hurt us.'
Stuart watched him pour the whiskey then took a sip from the proffered glass. Callum sat down in the chair opposite and ran his fingers through his thick, brown hair. 'Did you ever go back to the grief councillor?'

     'It wasn't helping, Callum,'

     'These things take time to work properly. If you could just talk to someone.'

     'I've always been able to talk to you.'

     'Yes, but I'm not as well-trained as the councillors are. I can't sympathise like they can.'

     'Nobody really knows what I'm feeling right now. It's just something I have to deal with on my own.'

     'You don't have to, that's all I'm saying.'

     'Mum's been good to me, but she doesn't realise that I just want to be left alone.'

     'That won't be good for you in the long term, Stu.'

     'I think I’ll be the judge of that, Callum,' Stuart rose to leave.

     'No, don't go. I'm concerned about you,' said Callum.

     'Are you?' said Stuart, draining his glass and putting It down on the desk. 'Can you honestly say you put my welfare before that of all your other parishioners?'

     'You are my oldest friend.'

     'Save it for the old dears, Callum.' Stuart snapped. I've got to go now.'

Outside, the elderly ladies had begun to scrub the graves clean. So far, they had removed the moss and lichen but not the paint. They hadn't started on Kirsty's grave yet Stuart approached it and cleared away a little of the snow. Reaching into his pocket he carefully pulled out the tiny, blue flowers and placed them where the stone had fallen.

Mrs. Keen was waiting for Stuart when he returned to the house. She was a middle-aged woman with a shock of bleached-blonde hair and a knowing way about her.

     'Your mother sent me,' she said. 'She told me the place needed a good going over.'

Stuart wasn't in any mood to argue with her. Against his better judgement he let her in and showed her where the cleaning materials were hidden.

     'My, my.' said Mrs. Keen. scanning each corner in minute detail.

     'I beg your pardon?'

     'You have let this place go a little...If you don't mind me saying so.'

     Stuart's hackles rose. 'Now look here...'

     'Just leave it all to me, dear,' she said quickly. 'Go and have forty winks on the sofa and I'll bring you a nice cup of tea when you wake up. You do look tired. A little nap will do you the world of good.'

The retort Stuart had prepared died on his lips in the face of this verbal onslaught. He found himself agreeing with her. He was tired and it wasn't fair of him to take it out on Mrs. Keen.

     'There is one thing,' he began.

     'Oh, yes?'

     'Idon't want you to go into the bedroom.'

     'I dare say it needs a good sort out..'

     'Thanks, but just leave that room to me...please.'

     'As you wish.' said Mrs. Keen, reluctantly. 'My, my the dust.'

Stuart couldn't resist a wry smile as she stalked off, muttering to herself. He lay down on the sofa in the front room and went over the events of the day. He decided to phone Callum and apologise for his behaviour at the chuich. He didn't want to lose Callum as a friend.
When Kirsty died a lot of friendships died with her. Couples they had socialised with now seemed to be avoiding him. Perhaps they felt awkward in his company. Perhaps they were afraid of upsetting him. They couldn't be more wrong, he thought, He didn't mind people talking about Kirsty, it made it feel as if she was still there.

Stuart slowly drifted off to sleep to the sound of a distant hoover.

He was awoken by the lightest of touches on his arm.

     'Kirsty?' he murmured.

     'Your tea is on the table, dear,' said Mrs Keen. 'Sorry to wake you but I'll have to be off in a moment.'

Stuart opened his eyes and regarded her sadly. He had been dreaming about Kirsty. watering the plants in her garden.

     'I found this behind the sideboard when I was cleaning.' She handed him a small, wooden box with a hinged lid. I thought it might be something you'd lost.'

     'Thanks,' said Stuart, peering at the box. He had never laid eyes on it before but It was certainly old and had a fine patina.

     'I'll let myself out,' Mrs, Keen turned to leave. 'Remember me to your mother.'

Presently Stuart heard the front door click shut and he carefully opened the box. Inside he found two things; some pressed, blue flowers and a piece of folded paper. He let the flowers fall to the floor as he opened the paper. Written on it was a poem in Kirsty's fine copperplate hand.

When I am dead. my dearest.
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree;
Be the green grass above me
With sbowers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

He recognised it as a Rossetti poem and the most touching thing he had ever read. A thought occurred to him and he took the flowers and the poem over to the bookcase. There, untouched for a year. were Kirsty's gardening books. He flipped through them in turn until he found what he was looking for. He checked the flowers in his hand with the illustration in the book to make sure they were the same. The caption read: MYOSOTIS - common name: Forget-me-not.

     'How could I ever forget you? he said out loud. 'Don't you know how much I loved you? I still love you and I'm not going to give that up for anyone.'
He stared at the poem for a long while until he realised it was getting dark outside. Perhaps an early night would help him marshal his thoughts, he mused as he locked the front door.
As he climbed the stairs something caught his eye. Bending down he discovered more forget-me-nots lying on the stair above him. He reached out to touch them but, as he did so, they faded and vanished.

He woke up in the middle of the night to feel Kirsty's form in bed beside him. Tenderly he ran his hand over her soft, warm body. He had almost forgotten the sweet musk of her skin. Her hair felt like a river of silk cascading over her shoulders.

     'Don't open your eyes,' she whispered.

Stuart held his breath.

     'I've come back to say goodbye,' said Kirsty. 'You must not look at me or you will never see me again.'

She kissed him hungrily, caressing his body with her cool, delicate hands. When they made love, for Stuart it seemed like the first time. Their bodies joined on a perilous journey into uncharted territory. At the end of the road he was crying tears of joy.

     'Kirsty, I must look at you.'

     'No, Stuart!' she cried.

He opened his eyes a fraction expecting to see her beautiful features but there was no one at his side. He was utterly alone. Had he frightened her spirit away? He began to wonder if he had been dreaming. He imagined the faint echo of a "goodbye" in the air as his tears turned to sobs of anger and frustration.

     'Please don't leave me again.' he whimpered.

Presently, with his head buried in her pillow, he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Sunlight crept past the bedroom curtains and teased his eyelids open. There was a newness about things Stuart couldn't quite put a name to. His whole being felt lighter somehow.
He got out of bed and padded over to the wardrobe. His foot connected with the tumbler on the floor. Mrs. Keen had been true to her word about not violating his dusty shrine. Suddenly he saw how futile his actions had been. It was pointless keeping everything as Kirsty had left it. She wasn't coming back no matter how hard he wished for that to happen. His reluctance to touch her things only mirrored his absence from her grave. There was no point in pretending she was in the next room anymore. The only way he was going to come to terms with his grief was to take her things out of his life.

Opening the wardrobe door he scanned the acres of Kirsty's clothes, neatly pressed on padded hangers. He lifted out great armfuls and laid them carefully on the bed. He fetched some bags from the kitchen and began taking the clothes off the hangers and bagging them
When he had finished he went over to the window. He threw back the curtains, The snow had completely melted. In its place the garden was cloaked in azure forget-me-nots as far as the eye could see.
Then he knew what Kirsty had been trying to tell him. The living things in the garden represented himself. The picked and pressed flowers he had found represented her memory. She didn't want him to forget her altogether but she did want him to go on living his life.

     'I've got the message, Kirsty,' he smiled to himself. I will never forget you...but life is for the living.'

Forget-me-nots would always remind him of that.

The End
© Ed Rackstraw 2001