Will has picked me up from the airport for over five years. Sometimes, he’ll bring flowers.
It makes me laugh to think of him, usually keen to stay out of the spotlight, weaving through a crowd while holding a bouquet of conspicuous yellow roses.
I’ll spot him easily, standing tall and bashful, and exchange my bags for his gift.
I’ll tell him we can put the flowers in this old bottle or that old vase.
But as I take his hand, I know that in a few weeks time, the sunny petals will be rotting, neglected, on our coffee table.
Eventually, I’ll throw out the stems, grateful that our life together leaves no time to tend to an old memory.