“This is not the first retelling of such a sad tale. A story such as this can be applied to any number of individuals regardless of social status or setting; regardless of the triggering events, which create the foreseeable abysmal ‘winter’. You could stand behind a woman buying a People Magazine and a gallon of goat’s milk on line in your local supermarket and she could have the same endings, albeit with different causes. Persephone ate the seeds that lead to her yearly entrapment in the lonesome depths of Hades. Telepinu’s morbid curiosity resulted in confinement to the land of Nod. Following the progression of these, however to a more modern extent, Cora had her destroyed reproductive system that dragged her back to 434 Hyacinth Court nightly.

As I recall, she was a quiet girl, and whenever I had the pleasure of seeing her, she was always smiling a smile that could raise the dead and cure cancer all at the same time; with a little magic left over to fix that annoying clock on my antique VCR. She had a miraculous ability, too. The often passed by floral shop on the corner where she worked had the most incredibly vibrant flowers in all existence. How is this ground for me to state she had an uncanny skill? The flowers were so exuberant because she sang to them as she floated through their midsts, watering and pruning them.

Speaking to plants in soft tones and melodies as they grow and mature aids them ever so slightly. As a human, such as Cora, sings lightly around flowers more carbon dioxide is released into the air than if the person were to just simply speak or shout. The result of said soft tones and melodies is a plant that is able to breathe easier, which allows them to grow faster. I barely ever heard Cora speak a word to another human being, but when I would enter the little corner shop my ear would be filled with songs of hope and depression, unattainable joy and unavoidable grief. Now, unlike me, if you did not know the scientific reasoning behind this phenomenon, you could just as easily have walked in and wondered if she was willing the flowers to life with her words. I like the ignorant approach better; it’s more magical that way.

Cora was at peace when she was amongst her flowers. The flowers relied on her and appreciated her. The flowers always seemed to overfill with a radiant joy just from being in her presence. The flowers never demoralized her with intentionally hurtful words. The flowers never got drunk while watching smut and put cigarettes out on her arms. The flowers definitely did not seem to loathe her very existence for not being able to bear their child. No, these were all things that Luis did.

Every night Cora would leave the bliss and comfort of work to return to the house she resided in with her husband, Luis. They bought the house together three years past, before they were married. Occasionally, as she walked the four-mile hike back to 434 Hyacinth Court she would recall how great she felt moving into a house on a block named after something she loved, with someone she loved… No, with someone she still loves to this day. She would remember how ecstatic she had felt when she believed they would be raising a family within those walls.

You see, Cora and Luis were destined to be together, that much is true. The element, which upset the perfect balance of this equation, was the silent infection that destroyed Cora’s ovaries, unbeknownst to either of the two parties. When the two had attempted to have children, the Fates laughed at them. No new lives were to spring forth from her dead insides. As was said, Cora and Luis were drawn together since the dawn of time; actions many billions of years in the past tied their destinies together, just as those same actions brought us here today to swap these stories. In their case, though, destiny did not count on viruses. Luis realized that he would never have a child; he would never have the one thing in life he wanted to share more than anything with Cora. He believed it was her fault. He hated her for it, and she felt obligated to him for such a failure.

Whenever Cora would open the peeling black painted door to her once hopeful house, Luis was always on the torn leather armchair in the living room, basking in the cold, iridescent glow of the television. She liked it when he was asleep. If he were awake upon her ultimate arrival it could result in a beer bottle shattering on the wall behind her, or an angry word slung in her direction, or, worst of all, a stare so cold and empty it would force her to break down and cry right in the doorway. She would always enter the bathroom upon returning home to clean up her makeup and brush her teeth. The smudged mirror always clouded her view, making the shy, pretty girl transform into a yellowing hag within one hopeless heartbeat. Sometimes while she was ‘cleaning up’ Luis would storm in, his angry footsteps echoing through her chest and behind her eyes. A fist was often slammed into her gut, knocking her to the floor at his feet. Often times, he would leave right after performing such an act, locking her in the room for the remainder of the day. She considered these the ‘good’ nights. As an upstanding gentleman, I cannot say what the ‘bad’ nights entailed.

Most of the time, however, Cora would leave the bathroom and enter the living room, stepping over discarded fast food containers and drug paraphernalia that decorated the floor. As she did so, she would always look into Luis’ eyes, hoping to see a glimmer of love; a glimmer that was never received. She would sit down in front of the armchair where he sat, occasionally getting stuck with a used and forgotten needle, or sliced by broken glass, and she would remain quiet as Luis would holler and bark at her. Depending on his mood of intoxication, he would be able to summon the necessary energy to drag her into the kitchen to make food, or to reenact wrestling moves on her frail form, or even, as was most commonly the case, to kick her in the abdomen and laugh while she fell to the floor, gasping for air. Sometimes he would deliver a series of blows.

The few flowers that remained in their house barely seemed to retain life. They had grown accustomed to smoke, to being drenched in urine and alcohol, to have cigarette butts placed out in their pots. Whenever Cora found the time, she would water them, but never did she sing to them. She had not said any words in their house other than ones containing apologies and tear-stained ‘I love you’s’. By the time she would fall asleep, either on Luis’ lap, his putrid stench lofting around her, or knocked out on the floor in front of him, the house would enter into darkness, the flowers left to depend on the light granted by the occasional still-lit cigarette.

Each morning Cora would wake up, always sure not to disturb Luis with little more than a soft kiss planted on his always sweat forehead, and she would feel like a new person. The early morning light would creep through the bathroom’s tattered shades as if it were an unwelcome guest, casting a cleansing glow on the mirror, as she would put on her makeup. Quietly, she would sneak through the house and to the front door, singing her beautiful words the minute she locked the deadbolt in place. She would travel the distance back to the flower shop, bringing life and joy to everything along the way.

So you see, we immortalized these stories in ancient civilizations, making its characters gods, but we did not need to. The tales are constantly being rewritten and reedited with new faces and events, why dictate them with a handful of deities?”

The two elderly men sit for a moment in silence, their coffees smoking while the butter on their bagels melts. It is a tradition for them to come to a bagel shop once a month to trade stories. Since the dawn of creativity they have habitually met, though their meetings have been more enjoyable since with the addition of caffeine and readily available bread. The man who was listening nods an approval, and then begins…

“A story of such sorrow and resurrection should only be properly balanced by a tale of appropriate heroism. I do not believe I have regaled you with the story of that orphan kid who lived down the road from me. That little bastard… Al, I think his name was, though I’m positive it was short for something of meaning… was always acting like he had something to prove to the very gods themselves. Why, I can recall at least twelve different times he was in the newspapers for his labors. He was a modern superhero…”