"Wildflowers" • Tom Petty (by Andrew Monge)

Losing you has been an exercise in dichotomy.

One of the best days of our marriage, enjoying a hike at Flandrau State Park before stopping for a picnic at a promontory overlooking the river valley; the worst day of our marriage, you smiling at me from across the blanket, lifting a sandwich to your mouth one moment, being crushed by the massive limb that fell from above in the next moment, the widowmaker living up to its namesake.

Being surrounded by friends and family at the funeral, breaking bread at the reception that followed, lifted up with love over the course of the weekend, filled like a balloon with the hot air of thoughts and prayers; Monday morning, deflated, our once-vibrant home empty, alone with the rings on the coffee table and the ghosts of shoe prints on the laminate flooring.

Quickly moving from green kook to gnarly surfer, becoming proficient at riding the epic waves of lorazepam and fluoxetine and whiskey, hanging ten on the edge of oblivion; being ragdolled after my spectacular wipeout, lucky to be washed ashore with lungs that still breathed air after being pumped free of water.

Staring at the picture of us on the bedroom dresser, you in my arms, the world at our feet, glowing smiles and twinkling eyes, a moment paused for eternity yet so vibrant I swear the frame is breathing; shifting my gaze up and to the left, analyzing the stranger looking back at me from the mirror, hair disheveled, beard scraggly, eyes matte black, skin sallow and drooping, melting like an overused candle, its ability to cast light almost in the rearview.

Living to talk at one point in my life, craving the spotlight, making constant plans for us, wanting to live life to the fullest with as many people as possible along for the ride; now, talking to live, a mute when I drug myself to group therapy, each word from my mouth birthed in pain, purging the darkness from my soul, chipping away at the dam that blocked my spirit, wanting the eventual deluge to wash away the mantle of despair I’d wrapped myself in.

Seconds.

Minutes.

Hours.

Days.

Months.

Years.

All to get to this day, the day of our final metamorphoses.

July, the month of your birth. Apropos.

With a cup of coffee in one hand and your urn in the other, I enter your garden in the backyard, the gift that keeps on giving, four quadrants of wildflowers that continue to thrive despite your passing and my neglect. I sit on the bench along the back fence, drinking coffee, watching the pollinators do their thing.

“Forgive me,” I say, “for keeping you in darkness for so long. Your place is here among your wildflowers, a place teeming with life. You created this sanctuary from nothing, and it lives on in perfection. I can think of nowhere better for you to be.”

I stand and walk each of the paths, sprinkling your ashes among the flowers. In time, you will be born again, not only giving life to this little plot of land, but also traveling on the wings of bees and butterflies, bringing your beauty to the spots they visit, continuing to make the world a brighter place.

Finished, I return to the bench and survey the garden.

And then I feel it.

Like a cicada emerging from its years-long hibernation, shell cracking to make way for the virgin creature beneath, blinding light upon its eyes, wings touching air for the first time, I lift my head to the warmth from the sun.

And I smile.

Andrew Monge (Twitter/Bluesky: @MuchAdoAboutNil) lives in Minnesota with his wife and kids. A computer programmer by day and a voracious reader by night, he is a lifelong introvert who only finds his voice while writing. His work has appeared in Punk Noir Magazine, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs Press, and Shotgun Honey.