Americans are callous, hard-hearted killers, guilty of genocide and mass murder.
The flowers arrive smashed and broken. The FTD deliveryman stands on the porch of my farmhouse and stammers his apologies, and I launch into a rant, reminiscent of my son’s political rants, except I don’t have his gentle Mexican wife to put a hand on my arm and whisper, ‘that’s enough’.
One million Iraqi civilians dead in our War Against the Wrong Country.
I think of demanding that, in recompense, the FTD man repaint the floor of my porch, whose glossy grey paint is cracked and peeling. It would be an irrational request but so much of life is, like these flowers arriving mortally damaged. Someone wanted to express their love and make me feel better as my illness spools out.
We should all abandon our lives, go live in monasteries and weep copiously night and day, and repent.
Instead I’m angry, frustrated, close to tears. I yell at the FTD man: Get out of here! Get off my porch!
Instead we entertain ourselves with superheroes and cooking shows.
He tries to say something about a refund or a replacement, but I won’t hear him out. My yells turn to shrieks and he flees. He gets back in his truck and drives away fast, roiling up dust on the country road.