text: It’s 7:15 A.M. I awake in a stupor, unaware of anything and everything for far too brief of a moment. An obnoxious alarm is beeping, purposely placed out of reach on the desk opposite my bed to prevent myself from hitting the snooze. Light beams in horizontal stripes across my face from the window near the desk. It burns. Rolling over onto my side, I brace myself for the incoming light and slowly bring the alarm clock into focus. “It’s 7:15 A.M.,” I mutter to myself. I pause and stare at the clock for what seemed like an hour, yet the time was unchanged. It was as if time came to a halt but the devil himself neglected to turn off the alarm. Counting down from five, I gradually manage to push off the weighted blanket and sit up in bed. As I adjust and rub the sleep out of my eyes, I get a better view of my desk. On it, the alarm is still ringing, pounding at my head incessantly. Further over is a picture frame featuring two people and a glass vase, full of flowers. Suddenly, the smell of roses fills the air. My heart races and my face goes cold. It is 7:16 A.M. The Fourteenth of February. I walk to the closet and pick out the fanciest clothes I own. The white undershirt for my hand-me-down suit is tighter than I remember it being, so I give up on that outfit and go for the next best option. The black pants are stiff and creased, as is the gray dress shirt I paired it with, but at least they fit. I stumble a bit while going down the stairs. The living room has been an organized mess for a few days now, with piles of half-filled shipping boxes in the corner by the door. I was dreading going through the rest of our belongings, so when both of our parents came over late last night for dinner, I had a convenient excuse to put it off for a little while longer. In the bathroom, I struggle to find the shaving cream among all her various beauty products, though I could not help but read the names of the products I don’t recognize. I find the shaving cream in a different drawer and apply it sparingly to avoid getting it on my shirt, only nicking my neck once this time. Washing off my face, I look into the mirror. Deep brown eyes with deeper circles beneath them, always looking just a little lopsided no matter how I adjust my head. A nose too wide for my face and teeth you’d never find advertised. How did she pick someone with a face like that? As I finish my preparations, I find my way through the maze of boxes in the living room, keeping my eyes on the door the whole time. I put on a warm, furry jacket and squint as I open the door. As luck would have it, the world outside is bright as ever. A pathway to the car through the dirt-crusted snow has caved in, but I am able to tiptoe through it without getting any snow in my shoes. A lone deer catches sight of me during my odd dance and sprints across the road from the neighbor’s yard. Two vehicles stop on a dime for the deer as I walk to my car, giving me a gentle wave as they go. I attempt to reciprocate but all I can muster is a nod. The ride feels like a cycle through the washing machine; it sounds like it too. Clouds are few and far between in the ocean of blue sky around. Leaves on the trees have been replaced with an even coat of snow, uninfluenced by those who walk beneath them. In the passenger seat is the vase of roses from my desk. Five minutes to go. My heart is nearly escaping my chest. She has been waiting for me to arrive for a while now. I didn’t forget. I could not forget. I pull into the parking lot of a meager building on the far side of town. It is a busy business with snow-white siding and a formidable double front door painted black. People are all over, wearing dress clothes under their coats and talking amongst themselves. I avoid making eye contact and plod toward the entrance, my legs faltering below me with every step closer. Hesitation creeps in with my hand on the doorknob and I cannot help but stand there at the front entrance, my heart knocking on my ribcage, pleading to escape. Before I can reconsider, the door opens for me, and a fellow gives me a simple nod and motions me in. I take the first step, then the second. I take a third. There are flowers crowding the south wall in an elegant array, every last one staring me down as I hobble toward them. I slowly pass by ten lines of cushioned seats, grasping the top of each one from the center walkway. The vase is tightly clenched in my other hand. At last, I reach the wall of flowers and leave the vase and all but one rose by the display. It is painful to look down, but I could see her now. I leave the rose by her hands and put my hand to her cheek. She is still cold.