A Love to Live For

Joseph was dying.

Over and over, the words played inside my head like a broken record as I rode my green bicycle down Red Maple Avenue towards the town center, and still, I could not bring myself to believe them.

How could Joseph be dying from brain cancer when just a few days ago, I had seen him working at his sister’s flower shop, healthy as a horse? How could he be dying when he was just as young as I was, only twenty-five?

The worst part, though, was that I knew it was true.

I knew it was true because my father himself had said it, and my Dad never lies. Never, not even if it was to shield me from some mortifying fact of life, like when I was five and I asked him if some people ate bugs, to which he replied that many people in different parts of the world ate fried worms and grilled cockroaches. He was the town preacher, after all, and one of the things he loved to preach about was telling the truth.

He was not supposed to deliver the news, though, his tongue only slipping so that he spilled the news by accident during breakfast. He pleaded with everyone to keep the news a secret, just as Joseph’s sister who had confided in him about it, requested.  

I felt his eyes rest longer on me than my two other sisters as he made his plea, knowing that of all those at the table, I knew Joseph the most, and as such, I would be the most affected by the tragic announcement.

He had been right.

At that time, I had only gaped for a few seconds as the initial shock coursed through me, then looked down on my plate and continued to gobble up my herb and cheese omelet as if I heard nothing, feigning indifference in some attempt at proving my maturity.

As soon as I had left home to go shopping for a few items from the grocery, though, my father’s announcement started to replay in my head and my true emotions surfaced. Suddenly, I felt a sharp stab of pain in my chest, familiar yet new at the same time, and instead of subsiding into a dull ache, it gradually intensified until it became so overwhelming that I had to stop pedaling just so I could try to breathe. Getting off my bike, I took a deep breath, then sat under a tree by the sidewalk and drew my knees up to my chin, wrapping my arms tightly around them.

Before I knew it, the tears began to fall.

I didn’t even know why I was upset, much less why I was crying at the side of the road.

It wasn’t like Joseph was my boyfriend. He wasn’t my best friend, either. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if he was my friend.

Joseph simply happened to be one of those people who knew me for most of my life, and whom I knew for most of his, mainly because he and I had the luck of being in pretty much the same classes from kindergarten until senior year in high school.

We might have been close once – no, we were from kindergarten up until second grade, sharing snacks, swapping lunches and playing games together like kickball and tag – but then, I got more interested in dolls and playing dress-up and collecting glittery stickers and he became more interested in his comic books and action figures and watching basketball games and wrestling matches on TV with his father. As a result, I became more involved with the other girls in my class and he got more involved with the other boys. Then, somehow, after that, I became popular and he remained…well, he stayed the way he was, and the two of us just drifted apart.

We still talked, though, mostly about school and only because we bumped into each other often. He was my lab partner twice, my seatmate a few times, my practice partner in the table tennis club for a year and he even danced with me during prom.

I guess that made us friends, though not the kind of friends who went to each other’s houses or sat down to exchange secrets or talk about crushes. No, I never knew who his crushes were or his favorite band or what things he hated, just as he did not know mine. I knew, though, that he had an older sister named Bridget and that his parents divorced when he was eleven. I knew, too, that he was good in history, that he liked reading Marvel comic books and wearing two-in-one long sleeved shirts, and that he had a habit of chewing gum and shaking his legs when he was nervous.

It was not like he told me those things, though, or that I researched them. I simply observed them, not even intentionally, over the years.

To me, Joseph was like one of those people in the background of a painting, the ones that do not interact with the main figure in the painting but are there just the same, like the tree in your front yard that you often never notice but is there just the same, quietly watching over your house and providing shade in the middle of summer. He was like one of those corner puzzle pieces which the puzzle could have done without but without which it would not be complete.

Yes, he was a part of my life, maybe not the most important, but perhaps more important than I thought, and I just knew that if he disappeared, I would feel his absence.

It was true, after all, though sad, that you never knew what you had until it was gone.

Or until you knew you were about to lose it.

At the memory of Joseph and I laughing as we shared a packet of fries under my umbrella one rainy afternoon after table tennis practice, I smiled. At the same time, though, I felt a large teardrop from the corner of each eye roll down my cheeks.

Why? Why did Joseph have to die so young?

It was unfair. Then again, life in general was. Either that, or everything was fair, happening as a prerequisite towards some incomprehensible greater good, which was what my Dad believed, saying that God had a good reason for everything, even the things that seemed tragic, and that I should simply trust in His wisdom, be more thankful and complain less.

Suddenly, a realization hit me and I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, gave one last sniff and got back on my bike.

My Dad was right. Whining and complaining right now wasn’t going to do any good, but I knew what could.

Inspired, I pedaled faster, but still within the safe limit. When I got to the town center, I went to the grocery first so I could get my errand out of the way, buying the olive oil that I needed to make dinner, my older sister’s favorite peanut butter, which she had just discovered she was almost out of – a crisis to be sure – and my younger sister’s conditioner, as well as something that wasn’t on my list – a pack of gummy bears, which was one of my comfort foods, just in case I still needed comfort later on.

After paying for them, I drove to the diner just around the block and bought fries and a shake. Then, I headed to the Bundles of Blossoms flower shop just a few shops away, saying a quick prayer that Joseph would be there.

Yes, I wanted to talk to Joseph, more than I probably ever had in my life. I wanted to tell him how glad I was to have spent half of my life with him and how thankful I was for everything he had done.

Just outside the flower shop, though, I stopped. Joseph was there, alright, trimming the stems of a few flowers, filling me with relief. At the same, though, I was suddenly nervous. Although I had studied with Joseph from kindergarten to senior year, I had not really seen him since I went away to college, after all. I mean, I had seen him in church and here, at his sister’s shop, but I had never really had a conversation with him.

For a moment, as I debated whether or not to push through with my idea, which now sounded a little silly and not at all as perfect as it was when I had first conceived it – sometimes, the more you think of an idea, the worse it seems, which was why I supposed ideas were meant to be put into action, not imprisoned in one’s head – I simply watched Joseph at his task.

He was working diligently, but not too seriously since he was still humming a tune as he worked, although I could not recognize it. Now that I thought about it, he was also much thinner than when we graduated high school, making me wonder if it was because of his illness or a stringent workout routine. It had a positive effect, though, making him look more fit. He was much taller, too and somehow, his hair looked a darker shade of brown than it was before.

“Rebecca,” an enthusiastic voice suddenly broke into my thoughts.

I turned my head to see a woman walking towards me, walking her powderpuff Chinese crested dog, and my lips curved into a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Winters. How is Buttercup doing today?”

“Good,” Mrs. Winters said. “She seems to be in a good mood these days. Your father’s sermon yesterday was very good.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll tell him that.”

“Oh, are you going to buy flowers?” Mrs. Winters looked at the front of the flower shop.

“N-no, I was just…” I stopped, unable to find the words to say. “I was just…going to look at them.”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear.” Mrs. Winters patted me on the shoulder. “I’m sure one of these days, you’ll find a man to give you flowers.” She leaned closer so she could whisper in my ear. “If you ask me, there’s a man right there who’s likely to give you flowers everyday, and he’s not bad looking, too.”

My jaw dropped. “Mrs. Win--”

“Tell Joseph I said hello,” she interrupted me, winking as she walked past me.

I watched her go, still gaping, then, after a while, I closed my mouth and simply sighed. Mrs. Winters would always be Mrs. Winters, after all, which meant she would always be delving into other people’s lives a little more than she ought.

Still, I wished my life wasn’t her current target, and for the nth time, I wish I wasn’t the preacher’s daughter just so I could have a little more privacy in a town that already had that particular item in a limited quantity.

“You’re not going to be standing out there forever, are you?”

Again, my thoughts were interrupted by someone else’s voice. This time, though, I knew exactly who the voice belonged to and I took a deep breath, gathered my confidence and mustered a smile as I turned my head.