Enough Fortitude to Uphold a Promise

The first day of spring. A time for growth, and, perhaps, reflection. A tiny piece of reddish green stood out on a spiny branch of mottled brown. In a few months, or perhaps years, it could grow to rival the size of the rest of the rose bush if left unchecked. At the moment, it was small and tender, and unable to do much more than soak in the sunlight.

When attempting to delay an unwelcome task, many find themselves suddenly interested in little details that they would have normally found insignificant, and underneath their notice. Little things, like how the aphids have not yet settled under the shade of the rose blossom, and the pale color of the perfectly uneaten little petals that have not fully unfurled. While the whole picture of the rose bush might not be ignored, it would be glossed over, like a low-resolution picture never invites greater scrutiny.

All of this was watched carefully by a nondescript man. He drank in the sights, the sounds, the smells- He took it all in, and lived in the moment. He knew that if he were to look away, he could never find it again.

And if he rose from his seat, he would no longer have an excuse to delay what he came out here to do. This deliberation was the result of a promise, a commitment agreed upon long ago.

Far enough back in time that this current future that he now lived through was hard to comprehend. Far enough back, that he could only imagine himself as having grown strong enough to keep his back straight, and take one step after another- onward, and complete his dues.

A slight hum filled the air, the product of thousands upon thousands of tiny wings, moving far too fast for the eye to follow. An insect he did not recognize landed on a young blossom, and sat as still as he felt himself to be.

He didn’t notice when it took off, but he could feel its absence. It was under no obligation to stay; if he was in its position, he knew he would have moved on earlier than it did.

A cloud began to cover the midday sun. The air grew cooler, and breeze picked up. He could feel that he had waited long enough.

Old and rusty metal grated as it slid over itself. The gate opened, and a heavy feeling settled upon his shoulders as it closed.

Granite gravestones stood tall over the dead grass. It was as if the field had absorbed the somber attitude of its visitors, and was doing its best to ensure that it would never change.

He felt that it was successful. Nothing green grew here. The place was, and always will be, the end of someone’s story.

He brushed away dry leaves and stems, and a plaque was quickly unearthed. He didn’t bother to read it. He knew what it would say.

The tired man’s dress shoes had collected a layer of brown dust, the remnants of three years of leaves. His knees began to hurt from where he knelt, but a little physical pain is often much less uncomfortable than what the mind is capable of dreaming.

A cheap bouquet of plain flowers slipped from his fingertips, and tumbled to the ground. And they didn’t move, until the next year.

   -

“It’s a beautiful day. Can’t you feel it?” The voice was light and cheerful.

An eye opened. “I can.”

“Are you missing something?”

“…Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Can I help you find it?”

“No…. I don’t think it’s something you could help with. I'm sorry.”

A voice called over the hill, its tone both worried and searching. She turned to him and said, “I have to go. Good luck finding whatever you’re looking for.” He blinked, and she had already left.

The table was quiet again, and he found himself missing her distractions from his thoughts. Reflection is often the start of a whole new story, but he wasn’t sure if it would be a tale he could live up to.

  -

As the days passed, change slowly came over his little house. Pictures came off the walls, and were put up again. Worn upholstery was replaced, and sometimes a dish would shatter on the floor. But overall, nothing truly changed.

Until one day, it did. Two years later, and, coincidentally, on the first day of spring, the door opened. However, this time, unlike the hundreds of times prior to this moment, there was more than one person stepping across the threshold. And perhaps the most surprising thing of all, was the smile that both of them shared.

When he picked up a stack of papers from the coffee table, both of them ignored the fine layer of dust. And when the stove turned on, the fact that it had not been touched in months was not mentioned. They both had eyes on each other, and he did not notice that he had, in that moment, finally moved on from his greatest regret.

  -

The seasons passed by again, the rain falling almost in a pattern. There was no snow, but that was to be expected for the location.

Once again, the gate creaked open. It had just rained, and the ground was soggy.

He knelt in the same spot as he had before, paying no heed to the water soaking into fabric.

Small drops of rain began to fall. They started small, but soon the sprinkling became a downpour, and he got up stiffly.

He shut the gate firmly behind him, and began to walk. The scene had changed in the past few months. The rose bushes he had once admired had been torn up, and replaced with a variety of thornless rose. A winding vine of wisteria grew up along part of the fence, and he remembered watching as the seeds were scattered across the earth.

He felt a bit of a spring in his step. He knew he had someone at home waiting for him, and that made all the difference.

He didn’t notice the faint shoots of green pushing up through the soil.

He had no reason to look back.