Sunflowers
The sunflowers remind Carmen a little too much of Sonny. They're tall and resilient, brilliant, bright, and soft to the touch when you reach the best part. Most of them are firm, because they have to be. But the petals, the petals are so soft and smell like promises around the trademark center where bees come on warmer days than this one. Her hands waver where they clutch the bouquet, plastic sleeve slippery with tears from the sky like the ones on her cheeks.
The tap of her shoes on the pavement calls to mind dates while the stars glimmered and bright blue eyes caught on her smile as if it was the only thing worth looking at. Calloused hands that were always cold used to hold hers so confidently in spite of shyly spoken words. They had walked down this very street so many times, the last time when the beautiful diamond ring on her finger bloomed.
But she walks by herself with no umbrella. Sonny had always loved the rain on his face. She can feel it now, upsetting her hair and making patterned drips on her shirt the same way his blood had done while she screamed. Carmen does not wear red anymore.
When she gets where she's going, alone in the storm, one of the petals dares to drift off its flower from the harsh beating. These flowers will die soon too, even in the rain, something she hates to remember. But this isn't something to be avoided. Her feet sink into the grass and mud, and her socks are wet, but she keeps breathing, keeps going, until she reaches a painfully fresh grave stone.
The sunflowers will keep him company.
