Late Bloomer

Margaret took a sip of her coffee and looked out the kitchen window at the brave daffodil shoot poking its little green head through the snow that had fallen overnight. It looked so fragile.

 Silly plant coming out this early.

 “What are you doing? You’re daydreaming again, aren’t you?” Bob said seeing her near the window.

 “I was just taking a little break,” Margaret said with a shrug, shrinking down to make herself smaller in Bob’s presence.

 They both went into the living room that was crammed with boxes, bags and random clutter, making it hard to move.

 “You need to throw more things out,” Bob advised. “Want me to do it?”

 “No, I’ll do it. But I can’t throw out everything,” Margaret said. “Some of it is meaningful.”

 “Then I’ll do it for you,” Bob grabbed a pile of her notebooks and threw them into the garbage can where they landed with a big thud. “See how easy that was,” he said, strutting away with a sniff of self-importance. She heard him open the fridge and take out a beer. The door slammed as he went to the garage where he was cleaning up. 

 Margaret exhaled and her shoulders relaxed as they always did once Bob left. Her ring finger ached. The wedding ring was making her finger all red and irritated. She tried to pull it off but her finger was so swollen, it was stuck.

 She picked up a tattered notebook that he had tossed and read some of the poetry and stories she had written years ago in her youth. They were pretty good. Why had she stopped writing them? Same with her paintings. She had them stored out in the garage in a crate.

 Once she’d dreamt of being an artist with her own gallery. She’d done one year of fine art at university but then quit to get married. Then she’d taken office training at Bob’s insistence.

 “Painting pretty pictures all day isn’t going to pay the rent, Margaret,” Bob had told her. She packed up her paintings in a crate and never looked at them again.

 There were those busy years raising two kids and working at a demanding job when there was barely time to breathe, but now she was retired and in her golden years. She had lots of time to write and paint. Why didn’t she?

 She looked around the room. Why was she holding onto this stuff? So much of it didn’t spark joy as Marie Kondo would say and only made her feel tired and inadequate. Over time, much of it had become invisible.

 She decided to be ruthless and attacked her clutter with zeal. She made three piles; a toss pile, a donate pile and a keep pile. Out went the records, CDs and DVDs. She didn’t even have a player for them. Out went the fancy dish set and the set from her late mother-in-law who had treated her like crap. Why would she use any of her dishes? Plus, they were an ugly olive-green colour that reminded her of puke. When was the last time they’d used any of this stuff? Same with the linen tablecloths and cloth napkins. They never entertained.

 She worked away for two hours sorting stuff and was barely aware of Bob staring at her with his arms crossed.

 “You haven’t made much progress. I’ve done way more in the garage. I organized all my tools on the workbench,” Bob boasted. “I also have an impressive bonfire going in the back yard. You should see it.”

 Margaret went out to the backyard where a blaze raged, flames flickering up to the sky with plumes of grey smoke billowing everywhere. Bob had piled up wooden chairs, wicker lawn furniture, a kid’s toboggan, and loads of books from the basement bookshelves. Ragged blankets and sheets became engulfed in the flames. He hadn’t even asked her if she wanted to keep anything. Then she spied them. Oh no! Not those! No, not those.

 “My paintings! Not my paintings. How could you? You had no right,” Margaret screamed through tears.

 “They’re useless. You don’t need them. They’re only taking up space. Why would you want them? You don’t paint,” Bob said with an insensitive shrug.

 “That does it. I’ve seen enough. That’s enough!” Margaret stormed away and went back in the house, slamming the door behind her. She took deep breaths between the tears. Picking up a worn green cushion, she threw it across the room into the discard pile, all the while imagining that it was Bob she was throwing away. She managed to yank off the wedding ring and fling it across with the discards.

 A few weeks later, Margaret sat with her friend Linda in the kitchen having tea and cookies.

 “Your place looks great, Margaret,” Linda said. “Was it hard to get rid of your stuff?

 Margaret smiled. “It was at first, but then I got rid of all kinds of things I hadn’t even used in years.”

 “Bob must have been impressed. Where is he anyhow?” Linda looked around the room warily as if he was eavesdropping nearby which he often did.

 “He’s gone.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Once I had the mindset to let go of what was holding me back. I got rid of Bob, too. He’s getting his own apartment. I’m filing for divorce.”  

 “Good for you, Margaret,” Linda said patting her hand. “I never liked Bob but didn’t want to say anything.”

 Margaret rubbed her bare ring finger which had finally healed with only a faint pink line remaining where the ring had been.

 Later when Linda had left, she peeked out the window and smiled to see that the daffodil had bloomed and was now a vibrant yellow flower turning its face towards the sunshine.