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Jessie’s favorite flower was layers upon layers of fuchsia petals joined by a green stigma in the center. These flowers, known as the Zinnia, were native to grasslands, which meant they didn’t grow in Virginia.
As Ron stares at the dehydrated flower in his hands, he supposes that’s why it was so special when Pete gave her a bouquet of them on their anniversary.
On their last anniversary before the world ended, Pete had come home from work with a bouquet of the flowers. Ron remembers how happy Jessie was, hugging Pete tightly and kissing him, just a quick peck because the kids were in the room. She’d pulled out her favorite vase and put the flowers in it before they headed out for their date.
The next morning, Ron watched her line some pages in the middle of her copy of War and Peace - her favorite book - with parchment before placing one of the flowers in the book. After closing the book, she put a phonebook on top of it. She told Ron it was so she could keep the flower forever.
A week or so later, Jessie took the flower out of the book and put it inside a small frame. The flower was flat and dry, but it still retained most of its bright color. She kept the frame on her nightstand, and Ron noticed that she smiled whenever she looked at it.
Ron hears footsteps make their way across the room, then a hand rests on Ron’s upper back, right between his shoulder blades. Thin fingers gently massage the area, and Ron drops his head, still clutching the picture frame.
“That’s pretty,” Carl murmurs, looking down at the flower.
A tear falls from Ron’s eye, landing on the frame’s glass face. He pinches his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger and uses it to wipe the liquid away.
“Yeah, it is,” Ron agrees, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “They were her favorite. She used to take this out, whenever dad was drunk, and just stare at it. It reminded her of when things were good, I think. Reminded her that things could be good.”
Carl nods once, his hand moving up to rub the back of Ron’s neck for a moment before he stood up. “C’mon, let’s finish up. I know it’s hard for you to be in here.”
“Okay,” Ron murmurs. He goes to set the frame down, but Carl stops him.
“Maybe you should take that with you,” the younger boy suggests, smiling at Ron, “it’s good to have something like that to remember her by.”
Ron hesitates for a moment, but he knows Carl is right, so he picks up the frame and shoves it in his backpack with the rest of the things he’d grabbed.
Leaving the place he’d called home for the last two years is harder than Ron thought it would be. He knows that everything he didn’t take is going to be thrown out or given to someone else. He stops in the front entrance for a moment, looking around his living room. He mentally says goodbye to it all, the paintings that line the walls, the furniture, the fucking Jack Daniels bottle that still sits on the coffee table, everything. He says goodbye to his family one last time, despite his knowledge that they can’t hear him, that it’s too late for goodbyes.
Ron isn’t sure how long they stand there before Carl grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. The blond turns to him, seeing the shorter boy smiling up at him.
“You’ll be alright,” Carl whispers, pressing a kiss to Ron’s cheek before leading him out of the house.
Ron thought about the Zinnia in his backpack, and knew that Carl was right. Someday, things would be good again.