She lay there, confused, not understanding. In her hand a pink lily, fragile, delicate, its flimsy petals resting on her breast.
Their last few moments played over and over in her mind. Her thoughts were clouded, her memory dulled.
His words swam around inside her head, muddled, unclear. She vaguely remember seeing him in the garden, plucking a bloom then stumbling towards her, a pained look on his furrowed brow. Then nothing. She fell asleep.
The sound of rain beating on the window panes awoke her. She watched the water trickling down the glass like the tears which flowed down her cheeks. Another day had dawned, a day when she would be alone.
His words were clearer now. She said them to herself, slowly, quietly, her voice no more than a whisper. 'Love is the flower you must let grow' he’d said as he threw the lily at her.
In her hand she still held a lily, but now it was limp, crumpled, dead.
‘Love is the flower you must let grow’ she said.
Written for Carry On Tuesday #10
I normally invite you to click on the picture to enlarge, but I'm not sure that it would be appropriate to do so on this occasion! Mind you chaps, the result of doing so is pretty spectacular!