Friendship in a Dying Flower

Once there was a beautiful, magnificent field. The field was large and open. Even when it rained, the flowers that carpeted the field seemed as if they would dance between the raindrops and shine in the lack of sun.

In the center of this meadow, on top of a perfectly rounded hill sat a very quaint picturesque cottage. Inside lived an old man who had lived by himself for the past twenty years in that cottage. Oh, how lonely it got. He would sit up in bed and look out his make shift windows out across the wave of blowing flower petals and he would think. But thinking can only last a man so long. And as one often does when he thinks too long, the old man began to get ideas.

He stepped outside his door one morning. The light barely peaking through the clouds, but it was still enough light. Cupping his hand gently he scooped up the most beautiful flower he had ever seen. He smiled at it and held it close to his face.

"Hello there," He whispered as the flowers brilliant blue petals tickled his face.

"Hi" it said back with a voice that was light and innocent.

"I will take you into my home, little flower, and we will be good friends." The man said, dreams of what they would talk about already floating in his head.

He took the little flower back inside his house and put him in a small cup of dirt. The little flower stretched his roots, but did not feel quite right.

"Thank you," he said nonetheless and enjoyed seeing the happy flash of delight in his new friend's eyes.

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The years passed, one and then two and three was coming faster and faster. The old man had changed very little, although he was brighter and no longer lay awake at night watching the other flowers who had each other, with envy. Every morning he would wake and he would feed and water his little flower friend and they would talk and talk and talk until they were tired of talking. They would talk about everything and nothing, because the subjects are rather limited when you live in a little cottage in the middle of a large meadow. But they would talk about each other and the other little flowers. Then, they would walk around outside. The man would put the little flower stationed so perfectly in his cup, in his hands. Clutching the little cup like his lifeline, they would walk around outside and laugh in the sunshine.

And while time had been as kind to the old man as time could be to an old man, she was not kind enough to the little flower. The little flower was even littler now. He was shrunken with age and shriveled at the tips of his once green leaves. His blue was now a dull grey that only showed the slightest hint of his brilliance with the flashes of the brightest lights. He shivered at the breezes and would curl up inside himself at night. But he was still happy, as he was still with his friend.

One night, the old man heard the little flower crying. He woke up and was startled as he'd never heard his friend cry like this before.

"Little flower, what is wrong?" He asked, worry and fear tainting his voice.

"I am growing weak, I fear. I do not know how much longer I will last." His voice was frail; nothing more than a shadow of what it used to be.

"No..." The old man said softly. His friend shivered slightly as the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Suddenly, the old man bolted upward and sprang towards his bed. He grabbed his warm quilted blanket and draped it across the flower's stem. The little flower buckled under the sudden weight. With horror, the old man noticed he had knocked his friends' leaves off. He pulled the blanket off, searching desperately for something he could do.

"Little flower, please! Please do not leave me. I cannot bear to live life without you!" The man rushed forward and clutched desperately at his little cup which seemed not strong enough to hold his friend in that moment. He held the flower with such love it was almost pitiable, but that was not enough to keep the flower from wincing and losing several petals.

His tears wet the soil the little flower had been standing in for so long.

"Don't cry, my friend, you knew this day would come."

"No, I didn't" Sobbing now. And he really hadn't. Naivety is not just for the young.

"Place me in the soil, my friend. Please, do this for me. Let me go." The flower pushed with his last ounce of strength, all of his love and devotion to his friend in a single brush against his cheek. He came back tired and wet from the old man's tears.

"Please, my friend, let me go." And it had too meanings.

The old man cried harder and shook his head, holding his little, sad, blue, world in front of him.

"No, I learned to live again with you."

"And you will learn to live with out me here in body. But I am with you all the time."

"No, not yet." But the flower did not respond. He was breathing so shallowly now. And the old man did not know what to do.

He ran and placed the flower in the dirt and covered him up so he was warm. The flower smiled at him one last time, before the wind came and knocked a final petal of.

The petal blew down onto the ground with a grim air of finality.

The air was never thicker and the meadow less cheerful than when the old man's sorrow pierced it that afternoon.

He had wanted the little flower to live and flourish on top of his grave. Not the other way around, and how selfish was that?