Songs from the Flower Garden

Episode 18

The Last Song

I drove to Rose Hill Cemetery December 8. A man and woman had come to see where the dead men sleep. As they walked away, a woman wearing green came up the path.

“Hello, Zeb. I suppose I should thank you.”

“For what, Zinnia?”

I had bleached the bright colors right out of her.

“Because of your story, I got my act together. It hurt, but truth hurts at times. I had told my fantasy to so many I came to believe it. Like it really happened.”

“I regret what I wrote.”

“Don’t feel bad. My Multicolored Lady Café is a good thing. I’m doing a bit of singing, like Stevie. I think my mother would be proud of me. I struggle though.”

“Did you really meet Greg on a bus in Memphis?”

“No, but kind of, I took a bus to Memphis to see him perform “Memphis in the Meantime” and other songs. After the show I made my way to him. He took me to his tour bus, and well you know.”

“Zinnia, you did what writers do. You took real events and turned them into art. I want you to know something. We all cling to a dream. It’s fine to do that. It keeps us going. Just don’t take it too far. Something else I want to say. You possess a bit of fame now. Whenever I hear the soft opening notes of ‘Multicolored Lady’ I stop what I’m doing and I see you, my multicolored lady. A tear or two run away …”

“I’ll remember that, Zeb. Tears for me too. I came here to bury my fantasy.”

“Why don’t you keep a bit of it alive. Go back to your bright colors. Zinnia? Stay in touch.”

We didn’t make love on Greg’s grave. We didn’t share the night, and I didn’t have to give her a ride. Nor did she bring me a cake with zinnias. I never heard from her again. I had deadheaded her.

Zinnias symbolize fame, but fame had long eluded my despondent diva. To this day her sadness seeps into me, and her song gets to me when I hear it. I killed the one thing that gave her life zest. I’ll pay a price for that.

“Blossoms Or Bust,” a poster of a nude Ivy rendered as shoals lilies drives a campaign to preserve flowers of intact natural environments. She asked me to write a plea for donations. Money poured in like the Broad River, but it wasn’t my words. It was the startling image of Ivy rendered into flowers. And would you believe it was Esmeralda who painted shoals lilies on Ivy.