-=Flowers From Ash=-

Instructions

-=Flowers From Ash=- We planted flowers in the bowl that held her ashes. It had been a request from her, one that had stuck in her head after unearthing the quote, 'From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.'. It was her gem and her mantra. Additionally, she never let anyone forget it. No words can describe what it was like when she died. It was like everything had been scoured down with a thick, brittle scrub, every trace of her removed. No one was expecting it, and no one could save her. Not even me. The only thing that gave me even a shred of comfort was the flowers, and they were buried deep in the mix of Earth and ash. But I knew they were there. I knew they were growing. I knew I would see them soon. The sky got darker, and grayer, and colder. The mist clung to the low, drooping branches of the once life filled willow in our garden. Everything faded to dark, muted tones. It was like all the life had been sucked out of everything, along with her. Life had even been drained from me. I kept waiting and watching and hoping for her flowers. But they didn't come. They stayed hidden, concealed, as the world around them turned the same color as the ash they were settled in. They didn't come. They wouldn't come. But I kept waiting. It was my only hope now. And, as most bad things tend to do, the dull, misty grayness of the world began to fade. It happened quietly, at first. Slowly, warily, color bled back into the Earth. The drooping willow began to stir in the zephyr, swirling it's long, graceful arms, the mist dissipating, releasing it's hold. The colorless sky gradually turned cerulean, as if someone had wiped away the dust and dirt, polishing it until it radiated beauty. Even I began to brighten, even slower than the return of life to the world. With each day, a little more sunshine weaved it's way through my cracks, lighting me up from the inside. Perhaps I got used to existing without her. Perhaps I had somehow come to terms with her death. Perhaps I was adapting. Like a growing tree, my joyousness grew a little more each day. It grew a little bigger, a little fuller, a little more real. Then, one day, and I did not intend for this, I give you my word, but one day, as if my own happiness had pulled them forth, they manifested. A number of tiny, pale, viridescent seedlings, thrusting their way up through the mix of crumbling soil and ash. I breathed in their scent: fresh, earthy, somewhat lemony. Like freedom. Like new beginnings. Like her. They grew. They extended. They expanded. They unfurled. They bloomed. Bloomed in rich colours, hued Sahara like her hair, violet like her eyes, scarlet like her blood. She was here. And I was happy.