Dried Flowers

"Dried Flowers," she shook her head as she stared at the dead and desiccated flowers in the vase that sat on the table in front of her. The vase itself was a testimony to her sadness. The limescale residue left behind from the evaporated water was the evidence that it had given all it could and it now remained an empty shell with nothing left but the powder of a distant memory.

Sitting at this table, in this chair for what she hoped would be the last time, her elbows dug into the tabletop as she dropped her head into her hands. "This is my life," she murmured. She had finally realized this was not a place of nourishment, not a home, but rather a den of condemnation and lies.

A flood of memories of all the times she was dismissed, berated, and violated washed over her as she stared at the vase. There was no emotion. She felt nothing; deadened in her spirit to this life of deceit.

The moment her feet would step out of the doorframe she could begin rebuilding, reshaping, and refashioning her heart, her life, her self-worth. Until that time she would remain dried up, void of all self-value or worth.

"This was long enough," she thought. "It's time for me to leave." She rose to her feet in an almost slow-motion fashion as she pushed the chair back with the backs of her knees, stepped to the side, and slide the chair back in place.

Slowly moving away from the table, she looked back at the vase. "It's my favorite vase. I'm taking it with me." Returning to the table she removed the dried flowers and laid them on the table and wrapped her arm around the vase.

Then the light of life faded from her eyes as the final evanescence washed over her. She stood at the door; her one arm hugging the vase the other hand tightly gripping the door handle as she prepared her mental and physical exit from this proverbial jail that had been her house of mental anguish for so many years. "Be sure to turn out the lights before you leave," she whispered under her breath as she pulled the door shut behind her.

The metaphor of the vase plays an important part in this piece. I tend to wonder what she will do with this vase later in life.
Will she wash it out and display fresh flowers?
Will she throw it in her car only to be forgotten and never thought of until she needs the reminder of her past and to return to all her anguish?
Will she take it and smash it to break completely free from her past?
Or maybe there are other options I have not even thought of.
This begs my final question should she have left the vase?

Regardless of all the answers taking that first step to free one's self from detrimental relationships is always the most difficult but each step away gets easier and easier sometimes it's not about looking back, or the regrets or the "I should have seen warning signs." It's about seeing the reality of the situation, correcting it, and then finding the best way to heal.

I Pray that you find your healing today.