Flowers she planted outside have died. Mums, tulips,
azaleas, begonias. Plants and herbs too, the kale,
arugula, tomatoes, basil, thyme, rosemary, which she
planted before she left for Ohio with our daughter.
I was supposed to water them, but I forgot. She
asks after them, like they are her children and she
misses them. I don’t tell her they’re dead, brown in
the August sun, that the house is a mess, that I spend
my days watching mixed martial arts fighting and
eating chips, telling myself that one day I’ll train hard
and knock someone out, or at least have the discipline
and memory to water plants every day, to keep them
alive. I don’t tell her any of this even though we both
promised that communication was going to be our
one number thing, our number one priority. The
most important thing. The most important item on our
couple’s to do list for the health of our relationship and
the future of our daughter. If she can’t see us
communicate then how will she communicate with
others? Pow pow. Get him, I yell, get him. Knock him
out, get him. Kill him. Kill him. You got him. The phone
rings. I answer. How’s everything, she says? I’m coming
to visit. I can’t wait to make a meal with all our vegetables.
Won’t it be lovely, our meal? We’ll talk and sort everything
I get rid of the dead plants. I salvage what I can. I weed.
I shadowbox. I do pushups. I re-plant. I buy new herbs. I
read gardening blogs. I jump rope. I water. I think of my
mixed martial arts name. This is key. I would go by
Blossoms. Yes, that's what they'd call me before I got them in
an armbar, before I made them submit. No, Blossoms, no! You
win! Blossoms, you're the best! The greatest fighter ever!