In Full Bloom

The moon glitters in the sky, throwing a silver cast over the garden. He totters along the bumpy cobblestone path, searching for the plant. He passes beautiful hedges, which tower over him, patches of tiny colourful wildflowers, each one precious and unique, budding saplings, soon to grow into grand fruit trees. It almost jumps out at him, it’s thick, sturdy stalk holding up closed yellow buds. He reaches out to touch it, fingers trailing down the stem, catching on a thorn. A small, shiny bead of blood wells up on his finger. He puts it to his lips.

Rummaging in his pockets, he pulls out a small vial. He holds it up to the moonlight, watching how the light cuts through it, illuminating countless little bubbles. Carefully, he removes the stopper and tips the bottle into the plant pot. It grows right before his eyes, yellow buds opening into glorious golden blossoms.

Under the moonlight, in full bloom, he finds the sight astonishing.

He plucks a petal off, placing it on his tongue; the paper-thin petal almost dissolves in his mouth. He feels the years fall off of him. He picks another, then another, then another, until he’s consumed an entire flower. A tingling sensation works its way up his legs and his arms, spreading upwards toward his head, a giddy sort of lightness, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He can’t help but feel slightly sad, looking at the plant, missing its biggest, most impressive flower.

When he returns home, he gets into bed immediately, muddy clothes and everything. When he dreams, he dreams of his youth, the ease, the simplicity. All to be returned to him in the morning.

When he wakes, he brushes his teeth, barely able to rip his gaze from the reflection in the mirror. He goes downstairs, and begins his usual morning routine. He makes himself a cup of tea, sits in the garden, lights a cigarette and gazes at the sky. So many people think of the sky as boring, empty. To him, its anything but. Birds, butterflies and planes all pass him in the fifteen minutes he’s sat there.

When he goes inside, he finds himself, somewhat uncharacteristically, hungry. He makes himself a bowl of cereal, then goes back and has a piece of toast, then another cup of tea with a few biscuits. He hasn’t felt quite this ravenous since he was young.

The rest of the day he spends strolling about town, wandering in and out of shops, and just observing others. It’s strange, he thinks, to see so many people looking so unhappy, when they all have everything they need to be happy. He has a walk along the riverside, watching the ducks as they bob up and down in the water. What a carefree animal the duck is. Humans could learn a thing or two from ducks.

He returns home late in the evening and sits in front of the telly for a good hour or two. The quality of television really has deteriorated in the past fifty years, he thinks. People will watch anything now.

He puts on his best suit, a beige, double-breasted number from the fifties, and pairs it with his favourite hat, a classic dark brown trilby. He picks out his best brown dress shoes to be the cherry on the top of his outfit. He savours the ease with which he bends down to put them on and lace them up; he can hardly remember the last time he was able to do that.

As he goes to open the front door, doubts begin to plague his mind. He backtracks to the bathroom, obsessively analysing his every feature in the mirror. His hair, his posture, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes - surely they weren’t there when he was young? Has the flower begun to wear off already? He brushes the doubts away. He’d better use his time wisely, especially if it’s running out.

He catches a taxi to the club - his last chance at a proper, 21st century night out. Not really all it’s cracked up to be, he thinks. The bouncer gives him a strange look, but says nothing. Upon entrance, the bright lights, the loud music, the crowd of people, much too close for his liking, all assault his senses. When he heads to the bar for a drink, he receives several compliments on his outfit and his bravery, though he can hear the falsehood in their voices. It doesn’t matter to him though. He plunges himself right into the middle of the chaos, throwing out dance moves he didn’t know he was capable of. People begin to cheer for him, the odd man in the old suit with horrific dance moves. He doesn’t care if they laugh - he’s probably having much more fun than they are.

He dances for hours, until he feels the energy start to leave him, and the old aches and pains settle back into his bones. On his way out, a girl grabs his arm, pulling him close to shout over the music, “How can you do that? Make such a fool of yourself and not even care?” He can smell the alcohol on her breath, and hear the insecurity in her voice, so he decides to ignore her backhanded compliment. He chuckles.

“You just do it.”

She looks at him suspiciously, as if she can’t fathom the possibility that he simply doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, before returning to her friends. Her friends who seemingly didn’t even notice that she’d left.

As he steps out into the cool breeze of the night, he catches his reflection in the window of a car. Wild and wavy hair, tamed by his hat, sharp, upturned eyes, softened at the edges by past smiles, small thin lips, turned up at the corners. He watches as his reflection smiles back at him, neither old nor young. Just alive.

Under the moonlight, in full bloom, he finds the sight astonishing.