“Insanity is a Bouquet of Lilies”

Words by:  Brishti Chakraborty

There truly is something beautiful and horrifying about people’s reverence for the long dead, he thought as he stood in front of a seemingly endless array of tombstones. Then again, what is a grieving person to do but to honor the one whom they had loved most? 

Was that why he was here as well?

 That question…It was a question he did not have an answer to. This interested him.

Until now, he always had a reason for everything. Even so, he could not find a reason convincing enough to explain why he was standing in front of a grave with white lilies cradled in his arms early that Sunday morning. 

His first instinct was to blame the girl (he was standing in front of her mother’s grave, after all, with a bouquet of snow-white lilies), but something inside of him knew he was being ridiculous. 

His muscled stiffened as soft footsteps came from behind him, and his free hand reflexively made for his pocket. His fingers came in contact with the finely crafted leather handle of a knife. But then he relaxed, exhaling in relief. It was just the girl, coming to the cemetery at a time when most were still in bed. 

“His first instinct was to blame the girl (he was standing in front of her mother’s grave, after all, with a bouquet of snow-white lilies), but something inside of him knew he was being ridiculous.”

His fear turned to slight irritation and then amusement. He had rarely ever talked to her, but the little time he had spent conversing with her had made him wonder how she would react to seeing him at such a place. 

Perhaps there had been a reason behind his decision to come here. This was intriguing. 

“You,” she whispered as soon as she saw him. “What are you doing here?”

This was met by a small chuckle. “I brought some lilies. Were they not your mother’s favorite?” 

Much to his surprise, the bouquet was (somewhat hesitantly) accepted. “Yes, but what are you doing here?”

He sighed. “I don’t really know, actually.”

 “Oh.” With that one syllable, she seemed to melt. She looked down at the lilies, and he thought he saw a small tear slide down her face. “The flowers are wonderful. Thank you.” There was a small, awkward silence. “Mom once told me that white lilies are like soft moonbeams.” 

He watched as she sat on the grass, which was still damp with dew. “Soft moonbeams. I like that.”

He decided it was best not to mention that lilies represented both innocence and death. 

She set the lilies down on the grave in front of them. Her mother’s. “Do you come here often?” 

Yes, but at the same time…“I’m not a regular visitor, no.” He did not look at her anymore, instead focusing on the delicate petals pressing into the earth.

“He decided it was best not to mention that lilies represented both innocence and death.”

He could feel her sadness turn to irritation. “You’re lying. Are you ever going to tell me who you are and why you find it necessary to meddle in my life?”

This amused him. Like he always did when she asked him whether he was ever going to tell her who he was, he pretended to ponder her words for a moment. Then he clicked his tongue and responded with a single word: “No.”

“That’s not fair,” she told him rather pointedly. “Especially after you lied to me one of the few times I actually get to talk to you.”

She certainly was something.

Met by his silence, her anger seemed to ebb away and fresh tears began to fall. “You know all there is to possibly know about me, including the fact that my mom liked white lilies. I don’t even know your name or anything about you as a person. Whenever I try to really talk to you and understand you, you just…disappear. You are one frustrating teenager!” Her shoulders sagged when he still did not respond. “I suppose a name isn’t that important, but I’d thought you’d at least offer to tell me more about yourself after all this time.”

This elicited a response. He laughed, the sound buoying over the grass and the many who had been buried there.

She looked at him, shock etched on her face. “Is it that funny?”

He finally stopped laughing, but a small smile remained on his face. He kneeled down next to her and used his dark sleeves to gently wipe away the last of her tears. “I think you might know more about me than you might initially believe.”

“Do I, now?” She was irritated again, and she angrily pushed his hand away from her cheek.

“You do,” he assured her.

And then he was gone.

“Flowers” by Priya Munagala, 12