Ephemeral as a flower, twice as vibrant

Flash fiction of regrets and seeing beauty in the world

Near my house there is a patch of wildflowers.

Every day I go and tend it. I water it when the ground is dry, I pull the weeds and make sure the bugs living between the flowers don’t kill any.

It’s hard work, thankless work, but work I do without a complaint and with a smile on my face.

She was a bright girl, you know?

Curious like none others, a curiosity that never stopped growing, no matter how quickly she grew. She grew through pain, strife and darkness. Her smile hid this part of her, but it was genuine as well.

What joy she found in curiosity. A bug under a rock, the shape of a river running, the sound of wind passing through the leaves and the many flowers and their colors, these were her favorites. There was nothing in this world that wouldn’t bring her joy.

And there was nothing more she wanted to do but spread that joy to the world. For the world to see the wonders, the beauty and the magic of itself.

She did. Once she was of age she left our home and went towards the big cities, there she would be able to teach the world its own magic.

She wrote at least once a week. Of her successes, of her failures, of her friends, of her enemies, of love and hate. Slowly, she found her following, she started a school, she taught and taught, even after her voice got hoarse, even after she got assistants.

She was bright, she wanted to share that light with the world.

I came to visit from time to time.

The world changed from last time I visited.

So did her.

She matured, she had experience now and a new sadness behind her eyes. And yet, that spark didn’t dim. If anything, in that new sadness it burned even bright.

She got older, her hair started shoring grey strands, wrinkles started showing around her eyes, her cheeks and forehead. Soon she started using a cane. Soon her hair turned completely grey and her face was more wrinkles than skin.

Then, one day I received a letter.

She was sick and didn’t have much to live.

There was something in me that day, an ache that I would feel until the end of my days, far far away.

I… ran to her, confused and in pain with no apparent source.

I didn’t feel exhaustion when I came to her side.

She was so skinny now.

But she was so happy to see me.

Her own mother, older than her for centuries, yet with the face of a young woman. Her own mother, who cared not for her silly joys and curiosities, what is so important about the world you see every day? Her own mother, who brought her in and cared for her when her village was burned down and her blood family killed. Her own mother, who never knew how much she loved her daughter until it was too late.

For the first time, I, her mother, cried.

And I didn’t know why.

She held my hand and thanked me.

For giving a life, for giving her the opportunity to live it and to live it fully.

That night, holding my hand with her remaining strength, she died with no regrets.

I only wished I could have spent more time with my daughter and actually understood her. She knew I didn’t and she didn’t hold it against me, she knew I don’t think the same way she or other humans do.

That made my regrets ache even more.

I was numb when they brought and cleaned her body, when the priests did their rites, when the students and the teachers and wizards and nobles of all ranks came to pay their respects. I stood in the front of the crowd, their stares and whispers ignored.

Not even death dimmed her light.

I saw as the coffin was closed and lowered into the ground for her final rest.

May she light up the afterlife as she did the world of the living.

I was the last to leave the graveyard.

I could only hang my head as I looked at the stone.

Teacher. Daughter. Showed the world its own beauty.

When I walked back home, I went past it, I didn’t want to see the emptiness inside.

I went into the forest, guided by a feeling. Past the trees, past the river, into a clearing where the sun shined.

Wildflowers. So many wildflowers. So many colors. They were beautiful. Vibrant. Not long for this world. No wonder why they were her favorites.

I picked one, a simple blue flower.

It truly was beautiful.

So, this is what I missed…

She was a bright child, you know? She saw beauty and wonder in everything. She wanted to share that view, she wanted others to see the beauty and wonder. She succeeded, even the most stubborn or ignorant of hearts.

Even mine.

Today, I pick one of the flowers and look at it deeply, soaking in the beauty.

Once a year, every year since that day, in her memory.

I don’t need to ask for it, I know it in my heart, but I can’t help but wonder.

Are you proud of me? Are you proud of your mother?

And I pray you hear me and know.

I am proud of you, my dear daughter.