[ WP ] Theme : Transience / Nothing lasts forever

Orson didn ’ t know how long it would take for the shrubs to bloom. He had carefully planted them at the beginning of the season, making certain they were fed and watered to support an optimal growth environment. But this was his first attempt at gardening. His wife Nancy had always been the one to spend hours outside in the yard. It was one of the things that first drew him to her – her appreciation for nature and the beauty in the every day. 
 
 But that was almost twenty-five years ago. 
 
 The house had been quiet without her. At first, Orson didn ’ t know what to do with himself. Nancy had taken care of the minutia – the cleaning, the cooking, paying the bills on time. He ’ d been more concerned with the big picture. It was funny how after all this time, he was only just now able to see how much that big picture depended on the little details. 
 
 But he soldiered on, figuring out how to take care of himself through much trial and error. Every time he learned some new trick that Nancy had always just seemed to know, he would look outside towards the newly planted azalea shrubs. 
 
 It had been the last straw really. They ’ d argued from the beginning, but the fights had gotten worse in the final year. Nancy was tired of doing everything around the house. She wanted him to find interest in something. Find joy in their life together. He ’ d just wanted things to be the same as usual. Easy. 
 
 That last fight had started at the garden center, of all places. She ’ d requested help with planning the new landscaping around the house. He only said yes to get her to stop nagging him about it. After spending almost an hour going over the pros and cons of adding the bushes, she had looked at him with dead, tired eyes. 
 
 “ I wish I ’ d made better choices with my life, ” she spat out, little flecks of spittle catching in the corners of her mouth. 
 
 Orson couldn ’ t believe a marriage that had lasted over twenty years could end thanks to a plant, but that was how it went. His sister had been dying to get him to date again. She was slightly older, and therefore thought she knew what was best for his life. 
 
 “ There ’ s this lady at work you would love! ” she exclaimed one night at dinner. They had been meeting up weekly so that Orson wouldn ’ t be “ lonely. ” Her words, not his. 
 
 “ She ’ s in her late 40 ’ s, ” she continued, taking a bite of the rather soggy eggplant parmesan she ’ d brought over to his house. “ I don ’ t think she was married, but she did just get out of a long term relationship. Seems pretty modern if you ask me. ” Orson hadn ’ t. 
 
 “ I ’ m not ready yet, Lou Anne. It ’ s only been a couple of months. ” Orson pulled against the collar of his shirt. Most of his clothes had shrunk in the dryer before he figured out the difference in settings. He wasn ’ t sure if this feeling of being choked was thanks to the too-tight cotton or her insistence that he needed to get out there again. He needed that like he needed a hole in the head. Orson used his already crumpled napkin to sop up the sticky sweat from his brow. 
 
 It was after dinner that he noticed the first blossom. Delicate and pink, the early suggestion of a bud was just starting to poke out from the sea of green leaves. The plant had taken longer to start thriving than he ’ d expected, but it seemed like nature was finally giving him a break. Soon, the entire row of bushes was covered with large pastel blooms. 
 
 Even though Orson tried to keep to himself mostly, there were a few neighbors that didn ’ t seem to get the hint. They were the ones who like to stop by in their workout clothes or with their yappy little dogs and have a conversation over whatever flavor of the week they were currently obsessed with. Orson ’ s shrubs seemed to quickly become that topic. Why had he decided on that particular species of plant, what had he been feeding them to make the flowers so vibrant? He adjusted his outdoor activities to early morning or late at night, but the watchful eyes of his neighbors never seemed to stray far from his comings and goings. Maybe because they pitied him now that he was alone. 
 
 For reasons he couldn ’ t fathom, the smell of those damn azaleas soon started to fill his nose even when he wasn ’ t outside. At the office, in his car, doing the dishes – every moment of his day was permeated by that sickly sweet fragrance. Orson stopped tending the shrubs after that. He thought things would improve when the first petals began to fall. They didn ’ t. Day and night, he was still haunted by the lingering perfume of the flowers in front of his house. 
 
 It was a cool night when the police knocked on his door. He ’ d only just gotten into bed, and felt odd standing in front of strangers in his starched cotton pajamas. 
 
 “ Can I help you officers? ” Orson nervously rubbed the fabric of his pants between his thumb and index finger. 
 
 “ Are you Orson Benjamin? ” the tall one asked. He had the kind of thick mustache you saw in cop shows from the 1980 ’ s. 
 
 “ I am, ” Orson confirmed. 
 
 “ You ’ ll have to come with us then, ” the squat one said, reaching out for Orson ’ s arm. 
 
 Orson was marched outside and read his rights. He squinted against the lights from the squad cars that hurt his eyes. He paused for a brief moment on the porch, a languid smile spreading across his face as he watched some fat crime scene tech dig up the azalea bushes he ’ d so carefully tended to for all those weeks. The man cleared the area with his shovel, knocking off the last few withered blooms. It was a huge relief. 
 
 Ducking his head into the police car, Orson wished he hadn ’ t buried Nancy so deep under the plants. It would have been nice to see her again before they took him away from their house for what was starting to look like the last time. 
 

