The wife of the old man that lives in my street died a year ago.

She used to water her garden

Every morning.

I remember the day she stopped appearing.

The old man sat outside in the exact same spot as his wife.

In his old age struggling to keep her flowers alive.

Consumed by grief

But he always tried.

Sometimes he would sit

There for hours

Staring at those flowers.

Perhaps remembering

How happy his wife was

Watering them every morning.

Looking at the bed of flowers

She created.

Where life surely flourished.

It seemed as if she poured her remaining life into that garden.

The last remaining droplets of her living passion before dying.

A passion for life.

It was beautiful,

It was suitable for the beautiful

life she must have lived.

It thrived, Like a toddler with a loving mother.

The full spectrum of color.

Since the passing of the old man

It has become a bed of dead flowers.

Faded to black and falling apart.

A victim of time

which eventually overpowers and devours the power of love.

What a tragedy is mortality.

I really hope somewhere out there,

there’s an encore.

So they can embrace once more.

Fallen petals of the dead roses

As the curtain closes.

THE END to the chapter of their story.

Memento Mori.