I wonder if you can hear me, Martha, as you lay there in your bed. The doctor says there's nothing more that he can do for you. I have signed the forms, once you take your last breath, they will start harvesting your organs, as you have wished in your will and in that little green card you kept in your wallet.
Martha, I regret about the accident. I know, I know, there's nothing I can do about it now. I have played it in my mind over and over, even in my sleep. And yet it baffles me that I am whole, nary a broken bone. But you, you're dying. Are you really? Martha, if you can hear me, do something so I would know.
It's not fair. Oh, God, it's not fair. How can I make things right, Martha? How?
We were fighting just before the accident. Just before we saw that big truck flying across the median on the highway and in a snap it crushed us, made us one with the glass and metal of our car. Just before that, you asked why I never sent you flowers? I told you, it's not my thing. Trinkets, lingeries, jewellery. I gave you hundreds of those. And yet you want flowers. Something that wither and then thrown away. You forget about it afterwards.
And yet, now you cannot see this. This flower that you so wanted. What good would this do for you? It will not bring you back; it will not cure you. Ironic, isn't it, Martha, that now I spent so much for these orchids that you wouldn't see, wouldn't smell, wouldn't touch, wouldn't know. This is not my thing, Martha. But here, have these. I got them especially for you. I love you, Martha.
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