Page 30 of For Flag's Sake
Birch:Maple, come on.
Birch:I know you’re not doing anything.
Birch:Maaaaaaaaaple
Birch:Please, I’ve become addicted to this block game Malcolm sent me, and I need to play something else to break the addiction. My mental health relies on this. On you. You are my only hope. Do you want to have to check me into rehab after I go off the deep end from my block game bender? No? Then lob a virtual ping pong ball at a cup.
Birch:Okay, well, you’re paying for my rehab bills. Remember, you could have prevented this!
I roll my eyes.
Maple:Somehow, I think you’ll survive a block game addiction. It’s not exactly lethal.
He replies immediately, and I’m painfully reminded of the very first rule in dealing with an annoying little brother: DO NOT ENGAGE. Texts come in one after another, a deluge of insults interspersed with guilt tactics and simpering flattery. It’s enough to make it impossible to check my other messages with all of his notifications coming in, so I text a rude emoji before throwing a virtual ball at a virtual cup to get him to shut up.
He does, thankfully, sending nothing more than his turn in the game.
I take my turn, then quickly scroll to my other messages, hoping he’ll give me a few seconds of time to, I don’t know, have a life outside of him.
My heart stutters when I see that one of my other messages is from Iverson.
In my haste to open it, I accidentally swipe out of the app entirely, and I have to take a deep breath to calm my trembling hands before I can get back into it. By the time I do, Birch has replied, so I appease his gaming needs speedily beforecarefullynavigating to my message thread with Ivy.
Two new messages, sent ten minutes apart, the first coming in thirty minutes ago.
Neither of them are an answer to our relationship-healing question, but my face softens as I read them anyway.
Poison Ivy:Dearest wife, I come to you with the worst news. Meditation is a planet-wide scam, and I have wasted afull day’s attempt at self-reflection on the horrible hoax. (An alliteration for you, as a gift. You’re welcome, my rosy Maple.)
Poison Ivy:I won’t lie, I’m fairly discouraged by this setback, but my dedication has not wavered regardless. I still love you. I am still willing to do anything for you, including but not limited to trying as many hoaxes as it takes to find thewhythat you desire. That said… you wouldn’t happen to know what the average is on how long proper introspection takes, would you? Or, perhaps, a tip? A trick? A magic spell? I am NOT asking you to tell me the answer to your question. I am simply asking if you might know how I could go about finding it myself in the quickest possible way. If you do know a better way, please take pity on me, for I am just a sad little lovelorn husband, desperately wishing to be with his wife.
An assortment of pathetically adorable emojis end his message, and I can’t help but feel endeared to my suffering husband. He may not have an answer, but he is so clearly trying, and my heart warms at his efforts. Not that I doubted he would, but… Well, it’s nice to see all the same.
I take a moment to volley with Birch before I reply, thinking over what sort of meditation practices might actually work for Iverson. He isn’t the sort to do well sitting in a quiet room with his thoughts, which I imagine is what he jumped to without being given a clear direction. There are other options, though. People all over the world meditate in hundreds of different ways, if not thousands. Which method might work for Iverson Todric Swallow…
I hum thoughtfully. Maybe he would benefit from the same sort of reflections that I occasionally take part in—journaling. I have dozens of journals filled throughout my life with thoughts both mundane and deep. It’s worth a try, at least.
I leave Birch with two cups left to get rid of and draft a reply to Ivy. I read it twice before sending, my thumbs barely cooperating from their nerves.
Rosy Maple:First, I want to say that I can see your effort, and I appreciate it. I have never been loved so much or so well. I want you to know that I feel it, and I am grateful, and I hope that you are aware of how very much I love you, too. Second, I am sorry that your efforts so far have been fruitless. Maybe try journaling? You know that it has always worked for me, so maybe it will work for you, too?
The message is marked as delivered when I realize that I sound like a weirdly formal version of myself, and I promptly want to die. Did I forget that contractions exist? What iswrongwith me?
It’s marked as read before I can delete it and try again.
My stomach curdles.
Dots appear as Ivy types.
Birch gets his last two cups and sends a victorious “YOU SUCK, I’M THE BEST” message.
Ivy’s dots turn into a blue message on my screen.
Poison Ivy:I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
And then:
Poison Ivy:Journaling.
