withered lilies [1/1]
one by one the petals begin to fall. [tadase, his grandmother]
shugo chara; family; g; 1300 words
Tadase visits her twice a day - once in the morning and once in the afternoon.
In the morning he kneels by her bedside and greets her respectfully, bidding her good morning as dawn tinges the horizon in shades of pink and orange.
She does not respond. Her mind may be awake, taking in his every word, but her body is still asleep, numb from the aches and pains that plague it.
Good morning, grandson, she wills herself to say. You are growing up to be such a fine young man. I am proud.
But the words never come.
He leaves, eyes downcast.
--
In the afternoon he kneels by her bedside and greets her respectfully, bidding her good afternoon as long shadows begin to stretch their fingers of gloom across the earth. Tadase tells her about his day - about his exemplary schoolwork and his many friends and the small club he manages called the Guardians.
She does not respond. There is a haze of sickness that obscures her thoughts. As much as she wants to speak with him, neither her mind nor her body will cooperate.
You are becoming stronger, grandson, she wills herself to say. And yet you have not forgotten your gentle ways. I am so very proud.
But the words never come.
He leaves, disconsolate.
--
There are fresh flowers every few days.
He does not think she notices, but she does. The flowers change with the seasons, from tulips in spring to lilies in summer, from chrysanthemums in autumn to glory-in-the-snow in winter. Where he manages to find such perfect flowers, she does not know. They sparkle with dew, and she watches, entranced, as these droplets glide down soft, vibrant petals.
The picture in the frame changes every once in a while too. She smiles when she sees a new one, for they are snapshots of Tadase’s life, and by seeing them she becomes a part of it. He is alone in some of them, eyes wide and gentle and yet with a spark of power and passion hidden beneath. In others she catches glimpses of his friends - a boy with unruly brown hair and a cheeky grin, a lovely girl with long indigo hair and a regal gaze, a cute girl with golden eyes and bubblegum pink locks.
She wishes she could put names to their faces.
--
Tadase visits her twice a week - once on Sunday and once on Thursday. (This is probably false. She no longer knows what day of the week it is.)
On Sundays he kneels by her bedside and greets her respectfully, bidding her good day as the light of the sun fades away into dusk. Tadase tells her about his plans for that evening. He tells her about what he will do in school tomorrow, and about the trip he and the Guardians took to a nearby shrine.
She does not respond. In the past, her body has felt deadened and unresponsive, and now the same affliction is slowly spreading to her mind. She can still form thoughts, yes, but they are jumbled and confusing, a mess of emotions and wisdom that she cannot express.
I am sorry, grandson, she wills herself to say. I am sorry that I can no longer be of help to you.
But the words never come.
He leaves, saddened.
--
On Thursdays he kneels by her bedside and greets her respectfully, bidding her good day as the koi pond in the courtyard glitters and gleams. Tadase tells her about the date he went on the night before, describing in detail how beautiful his special girl looked. He tells her about the garden that he and his friends are planting, and about the astronomy festival that was just held at his school. He explains how lovely the constellation Carina looks on a dark, cloudless night, as well as the dusty red planet and the craters of the moon.
She does not respond. The soothing sound of his voice comforts her, but she is fraught with terrible pain. Everywhere her body aches, as if she is being stuck with white hot pins, and her old bones creak and groan with fatigue.
I love you, grandson, she wills herself to say. This sickness is cruel to me, and through the pain I must let you know that I love you.
But the words never come.
He leaves.
--
There are fresh flowers every other week.
He doesn’t think she notices, but she does. The flowers, though less frequent, still change with the seasons, from the bright shades of spring to the frosty beauty of winter. They change with his mood as well, from the fragrant blooms of joy and first love to the harsh, jagged blossoms of sadness and rejection.
But they no longer shimmer with a fine misting of dew. The petals are no longer waxy and vibrant. As the week drags on the flowers begin to wither, their proud heads drooping in defeat, their edges turning brown and brittle.
The picture in the frame does not change much anymore. For a while now it has stayed the same - a lovely photo of Tadase and his classmates under the sweeping branches of a weeping willow tree. The pink-haired girl is there, grinning excitedly, though she wears her hair in a different style now. Another girl, as exquisite as a china doll, stands to the side, her delicate face framed by long brown ringlets. There is a boy as well, one who looks oddly familiar, standing near this girl like a knight-in-waiting.
Tadase has such lovely friends, she thinks.
She still cannot put names to their faces.
--
Tadase does not visit her.
He does not kneel by her bedside. He does not greet her respectfully. He does not bid her good day as rain falls from an angry grey sky.
She is alone, listening to the hollow, distant sound of raindrops against the roof (tap tap tap) instead of his voice. She misses his stories - the recount of his daily life that forced her to think of a world beyond this room. To hear such things made her feel alive again, if only for a moment. She misses him, but she is not angry with him for leaving her.
Tadase has not been to see her, but she understands.
It is alright, grandson, she wills herself to say. I know you are a busy young man. Your friends and your schoolwork and your club are all very important to you. There is little time for an old invalid like me in your life.
But even if the words did come, there would be no one there to hear them.
--
The flowers are dying.
She has been watching them for weeks, watching as their color slowly faded and their petals began to wilt. They are a sad sight to behold, these withered flowers, because she remembers how they once shone so brilliantly. They had life once, these flowers. They had strength and beauty and the will to carry on. But no longer.
Now, their petals are beginning to fall.
One by one, they drift downwards, settling softly on the floor around her.
One by one, one by one, one by one, until there is but a single petal left.
She smiles sadly, and wonders what kind of life her grandson will have. She hopes it will be a happy one. She hopes that he will live his life to the fullest, always standing strong in the face of adversity. He will not be a flower that withers and fades, she thinks. His beauty will not be fleeting. He will be both beautiful and resilient, withstanding the coldest winters and yet still warming the hearts of those around him with his gentle majesty.
After so many years of silence, she manages to find her voice.
“Thank you, Tadase,” she whispers. “I am proud.”
The last petal falls, brushing against an empty picture frame as it descends.
She closes her eyes.
shugo chara; family; g; 1300 words
Tadase visits her twice a day - once in the morning and once in the afternoon.
In the morning he kneels by her bedside and greets her respectfully, bidding her good morning as dawn tinges the horizon in shades of pink and orange.
She does not respond. Her mind may be awake, taking in his every word, but her body is still asleep, numb from the aches and pains that plague it.
Good morning, grandson, she wills herself to say. You are growing up to be such a fine young man. I am proud.
But the words never come.
He leaves, eyes downcast.
--
In the afternoon he kneels by her bedside and greets her respectfully, bidding her good afternoon as long shadows begin to stretch their fingers of gloom across the earth. Tadase tells her about his day - about his exemplary schoolwork and his many friends and the small club he manages called the Guardians.
She does not respond. There is a haze of sickness that obscures her thoughts. As much as she wants to speak with him, neither her mind nor her body will cooperate.
You are becoming stronger, grandson, she wills herself to say. And yet you have not forgotten your gentle ways. I am so very proud.
But the words never come.
He leaves, disconsolate.
--
There are fresh flowers every few days.
He does not think she notices, but she does. The flowers change with the seasons, from tulips in spring to lilies in summer, from chrysanthemums in autumn to glory-in-the-snow in winter. Where he manages to find such perfect flowers, she does not know. They sparkle with dew, and she watches, entranced, as these droplets glide down soft, vibrant petals.
The picture in the frame changes every once in a while too. She smiles when she sees a new one, for they are snapshots of Tadase’s life, and by seeing them she becomes a part of it. He is alone in some of them, eyes wide and gentle and yet with a spark of power and passion hidden beneath. In others she catches glimpses of his friends - a boy with unruly brown hair and a cheeky grin, a lovely girl with long indigo hair and a regal gaze, a cute girl with golden eyes and bubblegum pink locks.
She wishes she could put names to their faces.
--
Tadase visits her twice a week - once on Sunday and once on Thursday. (This is probably false. She no longer knows what day of the week it is.)
On Sundays he kneels by her bedside and greets her respectfully, bidding her good day as the light of the sun fades away into dusk. Tadase tells her about his plans for that evening. He tells her about what he will do in school tomorrow, and about the trip he and the Guardians took to a nearby shrine.
She does not respond. In the past, her body has felt deadened and unresponsive, and now the same affliction is slowly spreading to her mind. She can still form thoughts, yes, but they are jumbled and confusing, a mess of emotions and wisdom that she cannot express.
I am sorry, grandson, she wills herself to say. I am sorry that I can no longer be of help to you.
But the words never come.
He leaves, saddened.
--
On Thursdays he kneels by her bedside and greets her respectfully, bidding her good day as the koi pond in the courtyard glitters and gleams. Tadase tells her about the date he went on the night before, describing in detail how beautiful his special girl looked. He tells her about the garden that he and his friends are planting, and about the astronomy festival that was just held at his school. He explains how lovely the constellation Carina looks on a dark, cloudless night, as well as the dusty red planet and the craters of the moon.
She does not respond. The soothing sound of his voice comforts her, but she is fraught with terrible pain. Everywhere her body aches, as if she is being stuck with white hot pins, and her old bones creak and groan with fatigue.
I love you, grandson, she wills herself to say. This sickness is cruel to me, and through the pain I must let you know that I love you.
But the words never come.
He leaves.
--
There are fresh flowers every other week.
He doesn’t think she notices, but she does. The flowers, though less frequent, still change with the seasons, from the bright shades of spring to the frosty beauty of winter. They change with his mood as well, from the fragrant blooms of joy and first love to the harsh, jagged blossoms of sadness and rejection.
But they no longer shimmer with a fine misting of dew. The petals are no longer waxy and vibrant. As the week drags on the flowers begin to wither, their proud heads drooping in defeat, their edges turning brown and brittle.
The picture in the frame does not change much anymore. For a while now it has stayed the same - a lovely photo of Tadase and his classmates under the sweeping branches of a weeping willow tree. The pink-haired girl is there, grinning excitedly, though she wears her hair in a different style now. Another girl, as exquisite as a china doll, stands to the side, her delicate face framed by long brown ringlets. There is a boy as well, one who looks oddly familiar, standing near this girl like a knight-in-waiting.
Tadase has such lovely friends, she thinks.
She still cannot put names to their faces.
--
Tadase does not visit her.
He does not kneel by her bedside. He does not greet her respectfully. He does not bid her good day as rain falls from an angry grey sky.
She is alone, listening to the hollow, distant sound of raindrops against the roof (tap tap tap) instead of his voice. She misses his stories - the recount of his daily life that forced her to think of a world beyond this room. To hear such things made her feel alive again, if only for a moment. She misses him, but she is not angry with him for leaving her.
Tadase has not been to see her, but she understands.
It is alright, grandson, she wills herself to say. I know you are a busy young man. Your friends and your schoolwork and your club are all very important to you. There is little time for an old invalid like me in your life.
But even if the words did come, there would be no one there to hear them.
--
The flowers are dying.
She has been watching them for weeks, watching as their color slowly faded and their petals began to wilt. They are a sad sight to behold, these withered flowers, because she remembers how they once shone so brilliantly. They had life once, these flowers. They had strength and beauty and the will to carry on. But no longer.
Now, their petals are beginning to fall.
One by one, they drift downwards, settling softly on the floor around her.
One by one, one by one, one by one, until there is but a single petal left.
She smiles sadly, and wonders what kind of life her grandson will have. She hopes it will be a happy one. She hopes that he will live his life to the fullest, always standing strong in the face of adversity. He will not be a flower that withers and fades, she thinks. His beauty will not be fleeting. He will be both beautiful and resilient, withstanding the coldest winters and yet still warming the hearts of those around him with his gentle majesty.
After so many years of silence, she manages to find her voice.
“Thank you, Tadase,” she whispers. “I am proud.”
The last petal falls, brushing against an empty picture frame as it descends.
She closes her eyes.