Well where were you going?

I was walking somewhere, to do something, and I stepped on a wilted lily on the floor below a bouquet and forgot where I was going.
Our house has been full of flowers for weeks. Flowers that die slowly in their cellophane, boxes, vases and small, green plastic wrapped wire. I touch their petals with my fingers and their veined translucence becomes like soft, fleshy see through butcher's paper.
Like greasy food in white paper bags.
Like the way chicken satays, soaking through, create a yellow paned window in from the outside.
The way her flesh looked with that yellowgreen post surgical antiseptic around her bionic woman parts. Yellow chicken flesh around plastic, steel, tubing, and a chemotherapy drip.

I still don't know where I was going.