February 27, 2020:
Mysteries of the Mystical: A True Story.
She didn't. She rejected my overture. "No reconciliation for you!" Says the Put-My-Past-Behind-Me Nazi.
The Loosestrife plant promptly died.
I left it there, dead. On top of a stereo speaker where I'd see it every day. A symbol: of loss, of futility. A receptacle of sorts: the dead representation of my hurt and loneliness.
More than two years later it shot up a shoot. Astonishing, because, it had received no water or sunlight in all that time. Lazarus plant, returned from the dead.
Then, she contacted me. We reconciled for a time. At first it was a honeymoon, but then it wasn't. There was a change, without warning from my POV. To my astonishment the plant turned dry, began to wilt. Like a weathervane of our relationship, warning of storms. After a series of disasters when I returned home without her it had died in my absence, this time definitively. As had my interest in our reconciliation.
Did I make this up?
Not a word.