The Scent of White Chrysanthemums
Flash Fiction
In the dying sunlight flowing through the stained-glass windows, dust particles vibrate as if dancing with imperceptible angels. Gregorian chants fill the chapel. Here I stand, while not setting foot in a regulated place of worship for years, as I deem the Catholic Church greedy, full of gold and works of art. Transcendence. Am I mistaken? Or does my intense thirst for solace overrule my past resentments? St. Anthony looks down from the ceiling with a disapproving expression, perhaps glimpsing at my misconception. I have no time to negotiate.
My pale fingers slide across the maroon cushion of the pew. Though I imagine the texture of the plush velvet, the numb tingling robs my senses of full enjoyment. The earthy scent of white chrysanthemums engages my sense of smell yet reminds me of death. A flower used in my culture to adorn the graves for All-Saints’ Day. What Annette asked for on the last day.
Surrounded by medical equipment, crisp white linen encasing her up to her chin, she lay. Peaceful. Motionless. “Close your eyes. See what you cannot see,” she said.
Around her head, I saw the light, with my eyes shut, as a kind of bioluminescence. I listened as the heart monitor counted the beats she still had left.
To see again who merited all my love, I close my eyes and picture Annette sitting in the waiting room on that first day two years ago.
“Scleroderma.” I extended my hand.
“Pulmonary Hypertension,” she said. “I win.”
I stared at her. “Is this a game?”
“Yes, it’s called the game of life. My father often told me, ‘Annette, you got a big heart.’ Now the doctors have proven it true.” She laughed, breaking out in a cough.
A twitch in my hand signals the pain returning, and I can feel my fingers again as they turn from blue to red. I’m not sure which I prefer, the agonizing ache or the void of sensation. Is it better to not feel? No, feeling assures existence.
“Can I help you?” The voice interrupts my thoughts.
I clear my throat. “I hope you can.”
The man stands near in the shadows.
“Are you here for confession?” He steps into the beam of light. His grayish eyebrows arched, face round and plump, beady eyes.
“No.” Why did I enter this place of judgment? To confess the sins that allowed me to relish life? No, I can’t do that. To search for answers and uncover what’s beyond, after we die? Not sure, but I sense the solutions are out there, or maybe here. I need to find them before time runs out.
“What then?” His voice is low, as if not wanting to wake the spirits residing in this place of religion and need.
People come here out of desperation. For safety, checkmark for Sunday service, a promise they wouldn’t perish. To release the hurts others or a disease put upon them. I fit the mold. Experienced that which would force me on my knees by a pew—violated, shamed, and before Annette, resigned to loneliness—but I have more pride. Looking for absolution? To absolve my search for meaning, for loving her, to forgive myself for letting her go? I can’t tell.
“Is the pastor here?” My tone falters, frail.
“No, Father Frances is on vacation, won’t be back till Sunday. Leave your number to schedule a meeting if you wish.” He gestures toward the door behind him.
“I don’t have till Sunday.” To avoid his gaze, I examine the tall statues on both sides of the altar. A kind-eyed Jesus. Mary of grace and compassion. I let my blonde curls fall to cover part of my face, and clutching my purse, I turn to walk away. I feel his attention on my back, hear the sounds and echoes of my heels striking the marble floor. Without asking, why? He lets me go.
The last time I’d seen Annette, she picked up the white chrysanthemums I’d brought. She chose the middle one. I nodded. Separating the petals, she took a deep breath of the bitter almond scent of death.
My impending doom I didn’t make evident to the clergyman. With a quiver in my stomach, I fight the impulse to turn back and beg for someone to be there when my last hour comes. Shouldn’t a church be a place of refuge for the weary?
I’d left Annette with her eyes closed before her heart monitor went silent. I deserve the same.
The Author
Cassandra Crossing immigrated from Hungary in hopes of a better life and now resides in the Chicagoland area. She changed her name to fit in, yet even after many years, she's still viewed as a foreigner. But as in the movie, "The Cassandra Crossing," they survived a catastrophe, she's a survivor. She finds joy in nature and in the little things life offers. Poetry and writing have been her life-long dream. She writes from personal experience about love, despair, loss, and hope. Her work includes short stories, creative non-fiction essays, flash fiction, plays, and poetry. She’s also working on a few novels and novellas.
Her creative nonfiction essay "Naked" won 2nd place in April 2020 in a WOW! Women on Writing contest and was published online. "Why Are You Here?" and "A Future, Bright and Free" won Runner Up status, and they were published online in 2019 & in 2021, while "Sorrow" (2019) and her flash fiction “Allure” (2017) were finalists at contests by WOW! Women on Writing. An interview was published by them on January 5th, 2020, and one in April 2021.
Cassandra’s creative nonfiction essay “Things That Matter”, her fiction “Parenting Advice” and plays “The Chair” and “Three Tickets for the Show” had been selected by Oakton Community College as finalists to represent them in the annual Skyway Competitions in recent years.
Several of her poems were published by The Scarlet Leaf Review in March 2020, by the Illinois State Poetry Society (ISPS) on their website in 2019 and 2020, and in Ariel's Dream Literary Journal in May 2020. Her creative nonfiction, flash fiction, poetry, and artwork were published on September 24th, 2020 in Unlimited Literature's first print/electronic issue.
You can find some of Cassandra’s work on her website: ccrossing888.wixsite.com/cassandra and on Patron: www.patreon.com/CassandraCrossing. On Twitter at CassandraC888.
Cassandra Crossing
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