Each and every Valentine’s Day, I recall a poem by screenwriter Samuel Hoffenstein that I learned in high school. It still makes me laugh:
When you’re away, I’m restless, lonely,
Wretched, bored, dejected; only
Here’s the rub, my darling dear,
I feel the same when you are near.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Early in the morning, Marisa sat at her computer, apathetically reading through the news feed pronouncements on Facebook. She stopped scrolling when she saw that the man she loved for oh so long had posted a photograph of a glass vase filled with bright yellow flowers. In the comment box, he wrote only one word: Daffodils.
He used to buy flowers like those for her.
Throughout their years together, he had made sure that the vase on the table next to her side of the bed always had flowers in it. Lilies, orchids, mums, forsythia.
Now he bought flowers for someone else.
Marisa looked at the daffodils in the photograph — their saturation of color, the ruffled petals. She wondered how flowers themselves could look so absolutely happy, almost giddy.
Marisa knew that if she had seen this photo posted during the dark days of the past winter, she would have wept, sobbing sobs that would leave her feeling vacant and drained. She may have curled up in a ball, pulling her comforter over her head, abandoning all hope of surviving the big black sinkhole of pain that grew inside of her.
But that was then. The longer days of spring had arrived.
Marisa decided that the first thing she would do today was buy herself fresh-cut white tulips. She would carefully arrange the flowers in a glass vase and set them on the nightstand next to her bed.
The tulips would turn toward the sun, and each day, their petals would open wider, reaching out toward new beginnings.
Ivan drives the #36 bus route, a long, lurching stop/go, stop/go ride between downtown and north side neighborhoods. Up and down State Street. Back and forth on Broadway.
Ivan is close to retirement and a good pension. He has seven grandchildren who call him Poppa.
Most of the time, he doesn’t pay attention to the rush-hour crowds. They heap in, mournful and glum.
“Move to the back, please,” he says into the loudspeaker. Rarely does anyone listen. He has stopped trying to understand people who choose to bunch up in the front. Ivan makes sure the passengers pay their fares. Sometimes, he’ll deny someone with an expired transfer. Not always, but sometimes.
He’s been a dutiful driver, acknowledged at Transit Authority lunches for his complaint-free record. He’s received special awards too, one for delivering a baby and another for nabbing a pickpocket. He takes only a few sick days every year.
Sometimes, after he’s loaded passengers, he’ll see out of the corner of his eye a commuter running down the street, frantically waving to get his attention so he’ll wait and pick him up.
Sometimes, Ivan will stop.
Other times, he’ll pretend not to see, adjust his seat perhaps or check his schedule.
Then ever so slowly, he’ll apply his foot to the gas pedal and cruise through the intersection, leaving the would-be passenger behind. Ivan will look into his rearview mirror and watch how the mad dash turns into slow motion and resignation. He lip reads the spewed curses and knows he would never use language like that.
Gloria Bowman 