Hydrangeas in October: For Nonny

I thought hydrangeas were meant to bloom in October,

but they’re no longer growing.

The flowers by your empty room wilted,

their stems bowing as if mourning with me -

or maybe it’s me mourning them,

mourning you.

I remember when you arranged them,

humming a tune I can’t remember the name of,

but can still feel deep in my chest:

a melody that lingered even after the final petals fell,

a love that remains, even when you can’t hold someone’s hand anymore.

The hydrangeas outside still bloom,

blue, bright, unafraid of the rain -

your favorites, always your favorites.

Like the ones at your old house,

the house I spent my childhood in.

But the hydrangeas here, by your room, wilt.

These are the ones that are you,

and I wish I could keep them alive.

I remember, right before you left,

you smiled and said they’d been so beautiful for so long -

you were shocked at how they hadn’t browned yet,

at how they were still blossoming.

Days later, you went,

and the flowers did too.

October 21 carries your absence.

An empty bed with freshly washed sheets folded on top.

We can’t bring ourselves to make it.

Newer flowers fill the room,

but they can’t replace the hydrangeas.

They’re gone forever and can never come back -

here in memory, no longer in body,

and that sits like a weight pressing against my chest.

I remember you once told me,

“Just being together makes me feel better.”

So maybe that’s why I feel so sick.

You lived right downstairs from me,

and I could go to you at any time.

Now you live upstairs, but not in a room near mine,

a room in heaven.

You told me you’d have a better view of my senior year from up there -

my last prom, my last performance, my college acceptance, my graduation.

Things you’ll miss in person,

but will be watching from above.

I wish I could see your reaction.

I wish you could meet each person I do, see everywhere I see,

and talk about my dreams for my future with me.

You won’t see me grow into the person I’m becoming.

All things I know you would’ve been proud of.

You always knew what to say to make me feel loved.

But I can’t hear you now.

I am angry at the timing, at the disease,

at the cruel calendar that marked your leaving

during a month meant for awareness -

a month meant to honor the fight you lived,

for hope, for pink ribbons, for prevention.

It should’ve been a long month, not one cut short.

What feels like so little time, still full of so much love.

But right before you left, you taught me

the difference between joy and happiness:

happiness is fleeting, you said,

It's a sunbeam that warms the skin for a short moment.

Joy is deeper, enduring,

the steady light in our hearts that never fades.

To you, October 21 meant feeling joy, not sadness.

It meant remembering all our memories together,

even the simple, day-to-day ones -

cooking dinner, sitting together in your room,

talking about my newest music or a new TV show -

Those aren’t just happiness.

They are joy.

And our joy is never-ending.

So that’s what we should feel now, you said -

not the hollow ache of sadness,

but the unbroken, eternal thread connecting us.

I try to feel it, I really do.

But I don’t know yet how to stop the sadness;

You told me depth of the pain only proves

the depth of the love experienced.

I fill a new vase this time,

blue hydrangeas, your favorite,

and I hum along to

the last song you ever asked me to sing to you.

on October 21 -

This Little Light of Mine.

And I cry,

yes, because I am sad,

and because I miss you,

but most of all, because I can still feel your joy,

and the impact you had on my life.