Vases
by druscilla.
Like cut up puzzle pieces. Put it back together to put it together. But how do you put back a vase after it’s fallen to the floor? And if you somehow manage to succeed, you can never hide the cracks. It will never been the same.
And as Brendon lies in his empty bed, he begins to realize that pain of both the vase and its owner and, perhaps, even the culprit who sent it tumbling to the floor and waited, wincing, for the sickening crash.
You can want something back so badly. You ache for it, wish, pray, hope. You tell yourself you can forgive the imperfections, ignore the cracks. For awhile, in the right light, you may even be able to convince yourself that it’s the same vase, that it’s the way it’s always been, that it’s always looked like that.
One day you’ll invite company over and they’ll glance at it, politely not say anything, and move on. And, eventually, you’ll throw it out an put something in it’s place.
Brendon squeezes a pillow tightly to his chest. He closes his eyes, breathes slowly in and out. He tries to tell himself that it’s not true. That his perfect boyfriend would never cheat on him, that there’s a perfectly innocent reason for Matthew to be lying naked in a bed with some beautiful brunette girl. But he knows it’s not the truth. The pieces of the vase are all in a box that’s sitting on his chest, a horrible, crushing weight.
And just like a boy who’s been betrayed by his first love, he attempts to glue them together and ignore all the glaring imperfections. But after three months the vase ends up on the curb come trash day.
He doesn’t immediately begin to look for a replacement. The end table looks fine without a vase once he’s put a stack of books and his alarm clock on it. But as always, life presents itself. One day he’s out shopping and something sparkles and catches his attention from out of the corner of his eye.
Another vase, this one slender. Holding one flower would be difficult enough, let alone more. The potential new vase is looking at jackets and Brendon casually meanders over, flipping through the shirts on a nearby rack.
Their eyes meet and Brendon mentally pushes the books off his end table. They talk, walk around. The alarm clock stays on Brendon’s end table and the vase stays in it’s box, untouched. It’s a slender vase, as previously observed. And it’s timid and a little chipped. Somebody hasn’t been very careful with it.
But Brendon is not an impulse buyer and for once he’s not losing interest. The vase goes on layaway for months until a particularly cold night in October.
The vase is silent and still, as vases tend to be, while Brendon slowly takes it out of the white box and removes the brown paper. A single rose is placed in it and the vase sits comfortably on Brendon’s end table for over a year. The one day it’s packed carefully up and moved to a new end table in a new apartment in a new bedroom with two sets of pillows and a queen size comforter.
“Hey, Ryan, come in here!” Brendon calls and he pushes the boy to the bed, kissing him and tickling his sides. A leg kicks out amidst the laughter and the vase falls from the table to the floor.
But it’s okay and neither of them notices. They’re in too deep for metaphors now.
And as Brendon lies in his empty bed, he begins to realize that pain of both the vase and its owner and, perhaps, even the culprit who sent it tumbling to the floor and waited, wincing, for the sickening crash.
You can want something back so badly. You ache for it, wish, pray, hope. You tell yourself you can forgive the imperfections, ignore the cracks. For awhile, in the right light, you may even be able to convince yourself that it’s the same vase, that it’s the way it’s always been, that it’s always looked like that.
One day you’ll invite company over and they’ll glance at it, politely not say anything, and move on. And, eventually, you’ll throw it out an put something in it’s place.
Brendon squeezes a pillow tightly to his chest. He closes his eyes, breathes slowly in and out. He tries to tell himself that it’s not true. That his perfect boyfriend would never cheat on him, that there’s a perfectly innocent reason for Matthew to be lying naked in a bed with some beautiful brunette girl. But he knows it’s not the truth. The pieces of the vase are all in a box that’s sitting on his chest, a horrible, crushing weight.
And just like a boy who’s been betrayed by his first love, he attempts to glue them together and ignore all the glaring imperfections. But after three months the vase ends up on the curb come trash day.
He doesn’t immediately begin to look for a replacement. The end table looks fine without a vase once he’s put a stack of books and his alarm clock on it. But as always, life presents itself. One day he’s out shopping and something sparkles and catches his attention from out of the corner of his eye.
Another vase, this one slender. Holding one flower would be difficult enough, let alone more. The potential new vase is looking at jackets and Brendon casually meanders over, flipping through the shirts on a nearby rack.
Their eyes meet and Brendon mentally pushes the books off his end table. They talk, walk around. The alarm clock stays on Brendon’s end table and the vase stays in it’s box, untouched. It’s a slender vase, as previously observed. And it’s timid and a little chipped. Somebody hasn’t been very careful with it.
But Brendon is not an impulse buyer and for once he’s not losing interest. The vase goes on layaway for months until a particularly cold night in October.
The vase is silent and still, as vases tend to be, while Brendon slowly takes it out of the white box and removes the brown paper. A single rose is placed in it and the vase sits comfortably on Brendon’s end table for over a year. The one day it’s packed carefully up and moved to a new end table in a new apartment in a new bedroom with two sets of pillows and a queen size comforter.
“Hey, Ryan, come in here!” Brendon calls and he pushes the boy to the bed, kissing him and tickling his sides. A leg kicks out amidst the laughter and the vase falls from the table to the floor.
But it’s okay and neither of them notices. They’re in too deep for metaphors now.