Wednesday. A short story of less than 500 words. Entry 21, five entries away from my goal. This feels huge. This story is called a flower, a little sad.
The meadow crunched under his feet.
You must be crazy! She had said it every year. Her laugh had flowed in a sparkling river every time.
You are the crazy one, he whispered, do you really think I would not take the moment to celebrate something so important.
It was a dance they had enjoyed every year, a dance he longed for as soon as it passed.
The tiniest flower held on to the warmth in its heart to stay alive in the harsh cold. It was the last survivor before winter clawed away all that was green and all that was happy.
You are strong, the man murmured. When all else gives up, you fight on. When all else fades away your shine rise above. You are beautiful. You are true. Just like her.
He dug up the tiny flower and followed the path back. He held the flower in his hands and pressed it close to his heart. The path ended in a long line of rocks. The engravings told of people known and unknown. He planted the little plant in front of one of the rocks, right beside a ceramic pidgeon.
You are the crazy one, he teared up. We are stronger than this. We are the flowers clinging on in the cold. Nothing can break us. Not even this.
He put his hand on the rock. He kissed its edge.
I will see you soon. Our waiting will soon be over. Happy anniversery.