The Visit

–Mom, I brought you your flowers.

–I don't want them.

–Why not?

–I had asked you to bring me gardenias. These are not gardenias.

–I promise to bring gardenias next time.

–Don't even bother.

-Do not be like that. Thank me for the gesture at least.

–I don't want daisies, callas, lilies, daffodils, hydrangeas, or gladiolas. Gardenias. I want gardenias.

-My god. I'll be back, then.

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–Ready, mom. Here, I brought you the gardenias. A little beaten because we are not in season, but they are what they had.

–It doesn't matter, as long as they are gardenias.

–I already put them in water. Next week I'll buy some fresh ones and hopefully prettier ones.

-Thanks, darling. Did you also cut every last weed?

-Yeah. I already ripped them off.

–I don't want mine to look neglected. Like those forgotten and plagued by wild grass. And the ants?

–The borax did its thing. They don't go up anymore.

–Did you polish the plate well?

–Until I saw my reflection.

–Did you brush the name like I told you?

–I cleaned up every last little mountain of dirt inside the O's and the A's and the R's. Your name is impeccable.

-Thank God. It terrifies me that they don't know who I am. Isn't it getting late?

–A little, but don't worry.

–I'm worried that they'll close and leave you locked up here.

–You and your things. Relax. Or do you want me to leave?

–You know that if it was up to me I would have you visiting me every day, like before.

–I promise, although less frequently than before, to come visit you every week until it is my turn to accompany you.

–I hope, when it is your turn, that you will have someone who brings you gardenias, cuts the wild grass and cleans your plate.

–I already told you that I want lilies. I don't like gardenias.