Periwinkles

The periwinkle flower fell to the ground as she hailed the cab.
All she could think about was how he looked at her when she said it was time for her to go. His eyes were faint but deliberate, probably thinking he would never see her again. On her trip there to see him she stopped at a garden and stole a handful of periwinkles. She knew he liked blue. She grabbed a paper cup at the hospital, filled it with water and put the periwinkles in it. Then as she sat before him for the first time in ten years, she reached for the words in her throat, to say something meaningful, but she didn't know what or how to express her reasoning for leaving without a word that night. He remembers the look on her face that night ten years ago, when they walked through the door without their child, their child she could have saved if she were paying more attention. "It's not your fault," he said. And her response was empty, but clear enough for him to see her next move. Her face was drawn, her heart was cold, her hope was gone, and he to her was forever a reminder of their now dead son. So when she left he did not fight, he didn't have the will or might as he too was at a loss for what he loved so dearly. Somehow at this time she found her way back to console him in his current state, but only briefly because her pain refused to abate.