Your mom brought flowers

Your mom brought flowers.

Sunflowers, yellow,

the kind that's meant

to mean something—

brightness,

optimism,

a thing

that faces

the light.

Three days and the petals

are browning at the edges,

are curling,

are giving up

one edge

at a time.

The head is drooping,

is leaning

away from the window,

is leaning away

from everything

it's supposed to do.

The water's turning gray.

The smell's getting worse.

You keep walking past it,

keep meaning to throw it out,

keep not doing it,

keep leaving it

sitting there

in the vase,

dying

in front of you.

Because throwing it out

means admitting

the flowers

didn't work,

means admitting

that even

the things your mom

brought to fix

something

can't stay

good,

can't stay

bright,

can't stay

facing

the light.

So you let it

sit,

drooping,

browning,

falling

apart,

and you pretend

you might change

the water,

might save it,

might do something

other than

watch

something beautiful

become

something

you have to

throw away.