Abigail's Rose

Where did flowers go, after they wilted and dried up? Did their decomposing stems stay there, as if holding onto hope that they weren't actually dead?

The sunlight felt strangely chilly against Abigail's face. Her feet in their sneakers connected with the solid earthy ground. Abigail was fascinated by the steady nature of the Earth. It was always there, beneath her feet, when it seemed as though everything else was being yanked out from under her.

It was early morning, and the air smelled like wind and rain and those other things that didn't have a distinct fragrance, but that Abigail could still sense. Some were vague, like thunder and snow and sun. Some were specific, like the sweet aroma of dewdrops that dotted the blades of grass in Abigail's garden. She had always felt a connection with such things. There was a sort of comfort she found in being in touch with the world around her. It made her feel safe.

There was an overarching scent of lilacs and lavender and lilies-of-the-valley that overwhelmed Abigail's keen senses. She began to feel an inkling of warmth, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her flowers were blooming.

Abigail loved her flowers.

The flowers had not grown last year. Abigail thought that maybe it was a sign from God; nothing had been right last year. Not even the bright, cheerful petals that always lined her garden. They, too, had always been a source of comfort for Abigail's aching heart. That year, she had needed them more than ever.

The universe was like that sometimes, wasn't it? It only snatched away what you needed when you needed it the most.

That year, Abigail's flowers had wilted before even coming up. They died as little stems, yearning for the sun.

Where did they go, after they wilted?

Abigail looked at her garden in awe. They were as vibrant and colorful as she'd remembered. She fell to her hands and knees and ran her fingers through the dirt. Though it made her feel as if the sides of the Earth were closing in on her, she began to reflect upon all she had lost in the last year.

Constance. Her closest companion and friend.

That night was eerily quiet. The air had the aroma of death, still and cold and sharp. There was no wind or rain, just a smattering of stars, and even their glow was not soft or lustrous tonight.

"Constance?" Abigail called. Her voice echoed back at her. She shook the little round dish. "Constance!"

Her voice broke. She had never lost anybody before.

When she turned, she expected to feel Constance's sleek fur brushing around her legs. But no. There was no trace of a soft rumbly purr, either.

She walked down the street.

"It isn't safe," her mother had once told her. "for an impressionable young lady to walk the streets at night alone."

Abigail walked anyway, into what felt like oblivion. The road was impossibly dark, the air impossibly cold. Abigail's arms were dotted all over with little goosebumps under her sleeve.

"Constance," she whispered. "come. Constance, come." Her tone was desperate. She needed Constance. She, too, could give her solace.

Abigail put her face in her hands and let out one short sob. It was painful and quick and deafening to her own ears.

And nobody came to comfort her. The Earth went on rotating, as usual, as if she weren't there at all.

Constance had never much liked Abigail's garden. She would give each flower a haughty sniff and then curl up in the sunny window seat to settle down for a nap.

But Constance loved the tulips. She could stick her nose in those all day, and mew and purr and wind her long black tail around Abigail's legs. Inspired, Abigail cut a cheerful pink tulip and lay it down in the window seat where Constance loved to rest.

It was almost as if she was there again.

Then there was Henry. Loyal and empathetic Henry. How could she have let him go?

"You're scared," Henry told her matter-of-factly, perched on the bench he'd built for her in the middle of the garden so that they could sit hand in hand and enjoy the flowers. "Why?"

Henry knew the way Abigail's shoulders tensed, the way her breath shallowed, the way her hands fidgeted with each other when she was nervous.

Abigail looked at him, only out of the corner of her eye. He was lovely, for lack of a better word. He had sandy brown hair and big blue eyes, owlish like Martha's. More than that, he was understanding and quietly adoring. Abigail had never known anybody like him, and never would.

But the truth was, she was scared. Scared of holding on, but scared of letting go. Afraid of gripping him too tightly, yet afraid of being too far from him.

"I'm not." She said quickly, defensively.

"Yes, you are," he said simply, but he didn't press. He put his arms around Abigail, but his touch felt wrong. It felt as though he was too good for Abigail, for the world even, and that Abigail didn't deserve him. It was a feeling she'd had before.

"I can't!" Abigail suddenly snapped.

Henry's dark, thin eyebrows creased. It was an expression Abigail had always found rather loveable. He looked sort of like a doe, eyes wide, brows furrowed. Today, though, it made her want to cry.

"Abigail..." He said slowly. His voice was kind, soft, patient. She loved his voice. It was too good for anyone in the universe to understand. "Talk to me."

There was nobody Abigail wanted to talk to more than Henry. She loved him so much it was unbearable. But could she trust him? How could she know?

"Henry..." Abigail's breath was ragged. Tears began to well in her eyes and slide down her cheeks. She forcefully willed them back in, turning away from Henry.

Henry looked at her intensely, his earnest eyes speaking multitudes.

Abigail got up from the garden bench and began to walk. Away from Henry. Away from the terrifying idea of not being able to trust him. Away from herself.

Henry loved that bench. He loved to smell the heliotrope on a starry night with her.

Abigail picked a beautiful bundle of bluish-purple heliotrope flowers and set them on the bench.

Martha. Beautiful Martha, wise beyond her years.

The steady beep of the monitor filled the room. Abigail took Martha's wrist. It was delicate and fragile. A tremor went through Martha at the touch.

"Are you cold?" Abigail whispered.

Martha didn't answer, but another chill chook her fair shoulders.

Abigail removed her ski jacket and wrapped it over those weak shoulders. They shook again, so waiflike and vulnerable.

Abigail climbed into the tiny hospital bed and tucked Martha in. Martha's eyes opened and closed very slowly, as though it was the greatest struggle to keep them open. Abigail lay on her side and propped her head upon her elbow, watching Martha.

Martha looked at Abigail. Her eyes were owlish, big and rimmed and gray. They looked as if they were searching for something too large for the world to hold.

Her thin, blueish lips stretched into a little smile. It wasn't much, but it made Abigail's whole face break out in a wide grin. It was as though she, too, were nine years old again, talking miles a minute, never wanting to leave anything unwritten.

The tiniest laugh escaped from Martha's throat. Then Abigail looked at the monitor. Doctors began to rush in, but it was too late.

Her heart went still.

"Flatline."

Martha would have loved the shy purple lilacs that poked up through the clearing. Abigail plucked one from the bush and placed it in the nook of the grand old oak tree that was keen and wise like Martha.

A lilac for Martha. It was perfect.

Abigail looked around her garden. A tulip for Constance. Heliotrope for Henry. Lilacs for Martha. It felt as though they were here. Constance. Henry. Martha. But it was more than that. There was another presence that had been missing that now seemed greater and grander than flowers, than the sun, than the stars, and the Earth below her.

Abigail realized with a shock that it was herself.

She was great. She was grand. She was loved. She had the flowers to remember her closest bonds. One of them she could maybe even try to make new. For she loved Henry, and she didn't realize how much she needed him until she put the burst of purple and blue on their bench. So she reached for her phone to call him. But there was one flower missing.

She picked a bright red rose. It was rich and vibrant and it had thorns, but not very many. It was colorful and strong and wonderful.

Maybe the flowers didn't have to hold onto hope that they weren't dead. Maybe they accepted their existence just the way it was. Maybe the flowers wilted and died so that they could blossom into better versions of themselves. Maybe that was where they went. Abigail had lost them, but maybe it didn't mean it had to ruin her forever.

This flower wasn't for Constance, or Henry, or Martha. In a way, it was for all of them. They'd never leave her, never for good. But this flower was for someone else, too. It was for Abigail.

It was Abigail's rose, and she'd never forget it.