“A flower blossoms for its own joy.” Oscar Wilde might be right, but he never visited the place deep in the woods where I sometimes go.
There, the wildflowers bloom with seemingly reckless abandon.
They bring to me immeasurable joy, and I know they secretly bloom for me.
I planted those wildflowers for the best of reasons.
They mark the spot where my love lies silently beneath the ground sleeping for the rest of eternity. I buried him deep covered in a blanket of soil and fertilizer carefully putting back the flowers I disturbed and sowing seeds for more.
No granite headstone can mark the place or commemorate his time on Earth. No visitors can come to mourn his passing, but the flowers bloom for me, so I will always know. Forever, they celebrate the love that was once mine before it was foolishly given to another.
“He loves me. He loves me not.” The daisies will always have the last word.
I buried her where the poison ivy thrives. Away from my beloved but near enough to be eternally out of reach. My gift to her is a barberry shrub sure to keep even the most ardent explorer away. No flowers will ever dare blossom to decorate the spot. I’d pluck them from the ground if they tried.
The flowers blossom to show me they understand. Their blossoms shelter me from the pitying eyes belonging to the whisperers whose condescending mouths gossip about the lovers who ran away. They hide the corners of my mouth as it twists into an unrepentant grin when people speculate about where they went and what it feels like to be left behind.
The flowers blossom to remind me they will never forsake me. When I’ve taken my final breath, the fires of hell await, and I will burn forever in the colors of the scarlet rose mallow and butterfly weed.