“What are you thinking about, all the way out here?” a voice calls out, drawing me back to the present. My empty gaze sharpens, as I find myself sitting in a big empty field – the damp soil was soaking through my trousers, a testament to how long I had been sitting here.

I quickly remember where I am, as my eyes settle on the slab of marble before me. Half buried in the soil, it marked the source of my sorrows. 

I look to the source of the voice, and see a young woman approaching behind me. She wears a smile across her face, complementing her petite sundress and straw hat. Familiarity warms my mind, as I shake my head slowly,

“I think of a time when I did not think so much,” I reply, “A time, when my heart was not my own, and my mind had barely grown.”

“A distant time?” the woman wonders, curiosity in her tone. 

I ponder her question, grasping at memories before I answer, “A brighter time.”

“What happened?”

“I lost sight of the light that guided me forward, and with it, my sense of direction.”

“So you sit here?” the woman asks, “Hoping you will find it once more?”

“No,” I answer, a smile on my face, “I sit here accepting I never will.” 

The woman moves closer as I hear her faint footsteps upon the land. She shuffles through a rising fog as I notice the sunlight dim above me. Clouds shroud the light, and with it the land fell into shadows. 

“What manner of object could evoke such unwavering loyalty?” the woman wonders, kneeling beside me, “What could possibly warrant such devotion?” 

I lean forward, from where I sat, towards the protruding slab of marble before me. With a hand, I wipe away dirt and grass to reveal a pearly white gravestone, inscribed with two rows of words.

“Not what,” I corrected, “Who.”

“Who, then?” the woman asks softly. 

Another smile finds my lips, as my mind is filled with echoing laughter. My hands instinctively run through my hair, desperately trying to replicate the touch of another. My eyes read the first row of words in the gravestone: 

A friend. 

“A maiden of sunlight,” I begin,  “Feared by all shadows of sorrow.

Her presence demanded the absence of pain, and gracefully she would dismiss their grasp. 

Her spirit was one of tenderness. All who felt it, were rarely the same without it. 

Sculpted by her elegance, I learned what it was to be cared for, and loved. 

Spoiled by her innocence, I would have razed this world if it threatened to take her smile. 

Inspired by her kindness, I stood tall, knowing I was unlost so long as she would guide me.”

My eyes linger on the second row of words, as my memories shift. My mind relives, in seconds, nights I had spent engulfed in emotions so strong I lacked the words to describe it. My hands hold tightly together, as if to brace for what follows. Still, I force myself to read:

A lover. 

“She taught me to see people, as if they were flowers,” I continue, “She would often say to me: 

“Treat them with grace, and love them with patience. 

In time, they will bloom with petals, colors you never knew you missed.

Spread their petals far along your path, just as they do along wedding aisles, for the bride.

Make bright, what you deem grim. 

Make full, what you perceive empty. 

Make yours, a life well-lived.”” 

I drift off to find an expression of interest on the woman’s face, eager for me to carry on.

“She deemed herself my Flower Girl,” I continue, “Promising to help cover my dull path in colorful petals until I learned to do so on my own. I have not seen flowers, or people, the same ever since.” 

“You recall her memory with such fondness,” the woman beside me says, “A high pedestal for mere memories.” 

I scoff. Rising to a stand, I dust my trousers off, and reach for the bouquet of flowers I brought with me. My eyes fixated on the gravestone as I reply,

“How could a mortal man not similarly regard the care he was shown by an angel?

How could a once broken man forget the one who pieced him back together? 

How could a simple man forget the sincerity of one whose mere existence was his reason to awaken?” 

I bend down towards the gravestone, reaching out a hand to dust off a third line scribed in the marble. 

“How can a husband, forget how mundane his life was, before he met his wife.” I add, reading the final words in my mind:

A wife. 

“What life can be mundane, simply from the absence of another?” the woman shakes gently, as she too rises beside me, “Meaning is not to be given to us, by another.”

I stand to look her in the eyes, pulling something from my jacket pocket for her to see. A single withering lily. Longingness in my voice, I reply: 

“Meaning is what she gave me, every morning. A single flower, in the same jacket pocket.

“May the flower bring you strength,” she would say, “To succeed where others can’t. 

“May the flower be your guide”, she would say, “To remind you, when it is time to come home.”

“May the flower bring you love”, she would say, “For an empty heart, is still no space for sorrowful thoughts.”

Her lessons, I cling to, as the last I have of her.

The last, I have, of you.”

Silence falls between us, as I return the lily back into my pocket. I avert my eyes from the woman’s, choosing instead to kneel by the grave. I begin changing the flowers in the vase beside it, as I feel her gaze behind me. I could not bring myself to look at her, especially now, having admitted her identity. 

Gently, a hand lays itself on my shoulder, and the woman’s voice rings brightly, 

“If your wife’s lessons truly mean so much, perhaps you would hear another one from her?”

My heart begs me to not listen, but my mind knows I must. Biting my lips, I turn my head away to whisper, 

“Of course.” 

The hand on my shoulder moves towards my chin, pulling me back towards the woman. As our gaze locks, I recognize the kindness of my wife’s love within them. With a smile, she says:

 “A garden is not beautiful, because it blooms forevermore. 

Time is not precious, because it stills and never moves. 

Love lives on in a million ways, but grief should not be one of them.

Let me go, darling mine, the life we sowed yet blooms.” 

Something shatters within me as despair grips my mind, I shake beneath her words, doing my best to wrestle back sorrow. 

“Do you like them?” I shakily ask, gesturing to the flowers, “Though I do not share your eyes for them, I did my best to pick them. I hope you at least do not hate them.” 

The woman runs a hand along my chin, as we exchange the briefest kiss. My mind does its best to savor, a touch that is not felt. I glimpse a look of gentleness in her eyes as we pull apart, one I thought I’d never see again. 

“I love them,” she whispers.

She wipes tears from my eyes, as I pull her into a tight embrace. 

“Know that I miss you, every day,” I whisper, my voice shaky, and broken, “I fear to face this world without you, but know that I must.”

“Know that I carry on, for you,” I whisper, as I force my mind to remember the scent of cherry blossoms in her hair, “I still cling to the hope, that this path will lead me back to you.”

“Know that I learned your lesson in the end,” I finish, as my arms lose strength, and slip apart, “My path is an ensemble of flowers, colorful beyond imagination. It is filled with the petals of beautiful people, though it misses the petals of the one who matters most.

The petals of my Flower Girl. 

The colors, of my wife. 

You.” 

Shifting beneath my embrace, the woman snuggles into my chest. Reaching into my jacket, she pulls out the withering lily, setting it beside the grave. She smiles and sweetly whispers back,

“You have done so well, and kept so strong. It has been a joy to watch you grow. 

Though the garden we planted has withered, I can’t wait to see what you plant next.” 

She reaches a hand towards the vase of flowers – gently plucking one from the bunch, and placing it into my jacket pocket.

“My petals have long since been yours to hold, my love,” she whispers, as the spirit of my wife flickers between my arms,

“You need only spread them, as you go.” 

With that, I am left alone once more. 

In a field, beneath the sun. 

Weeping, before my wife’s grave.

I reach a hand into my pocket, and pull a flower forth.

A sunflower. Beaming proudly towards the sun.