What is a flower with a loud brain supposed to do with a long, lonely, summer and a dying other?

 A bouquet of flowers my mother brought home from an engagement party last night seems to be the only thing I can keep my eyes on right now. I’ve been staring at them since last night, after crying about my dog for the first time.

Titus is old and angry. I’ve been preparing for his death for 3 years now. My mother wants God to take the wheel on this one and have him take Titus when he wants to. For a dog that has been having seizures for years, I realize that I’ve never actually seen it happen. So when he had one last night, with my mother 30 minutes away, I was so sure God was saying it was his time. I don’t think I’ve ever argued with God until then. It wouldn’t have been fair to have Titus pass without my mother home. 

There were some points this summer that made it feel like the only thing me and my mother had in common was our concern for Titus. Granted, most of it came from her waking me up before leaving for work with a “you need to make sure you keep an eye on Titus; he hasn’t eaten and might die anytime now.” And she hates when I sleep in. I don’t cry about him because I’m convinced she does enough of that for the whole family. I like to chalk it up to her being dramatic, like she is with most things, but last night I was staring at those flowers as if my tears were indirectly adding to the water in their vase and the longevity of their lives.

                                                                                                      𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I spent the summer picking flowers from my neighbors' yards in secret. I’d take them to my room and have them replace the dead ones in the vase next to my bed— the only hint of life in my dark room that faces a brick wall. 

When I was a teenager getting out of a bad depression, I told myself I would stop acting like I was already dead. In parallel with my dying dog. We would lay in bed all day together, like we'd already accepted defeat. We learned a lot about each other that year. This summer, I fell guilty of this habit once again. Except this time, I sat between Titus and a fresh bouquet of stolen flowers to focus on. 

With time, I understood that I’m too old to be staying in bed for hours by now. I’ve done a good job at getting up semi-early and bringing my corpse to another place in the house, just to do the same thing. For some reason, that felt more productive than being in my room. I’ve created a little world for myself wherever I go; I keep myself entertained and as lively as I can. I tell myself, “Don’t be making any new habits to get out of.” I’m getting tired of the never-ending battle of self-improvement. 

I feel myself getting smaller the bigger I get. I know Titus feels this way too. The only difference is that he tries harder than me to fix it. From early adolescence to my slow farewell to adolescence, he never lost his energy. I’ve never seen a dog push themselves so hard. His spirit is consistent and noteable in our household. I have a lot to learn from him. I want more energy to keep up with. Sometimes I think Titus and I would be put next to each other if we were flowers in a bouquet. How do flowers cope when one of their peers dies before them? When I’m the one that has been acting dead all summer and the flower next to me seems to have more life in it, how do I watch it die?