Image attribution: EFFLORESCENT by Michael Whelan. Read more about the painting and following story here.

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You told me you dreamed of flowers. I was tired, energy spent trying to open rifts between worlds. I wanted to run my fingers through the gossamer mysteries hidden there.

The next day, you painted wildflowers—snowdrops and flaming orchids. I returned to ancient incantations, sweat running into the collar of yesterday’s shirt. You brought me dinner and collected it again once it had gone cold. I forgot to ask if I could see the storm of petals you had conjured. You said it was fine, but I saw the line across your brow. Another sadness you didn’t want to place upon the burdens I had taken for myself.

After—you asked me to hang that painting of wildflowers in your sickroom. Somehow, it still made you smile. Your smile is so beautiful.

Was.

My research took a different tone. I was between worlds when your last breath flew free. I had finally unfolded the mysteries—too late to save you.

I buried you on that new world, in a slate valley with walls like a fortress. The old world didn’t deserve you. I wept on your gravestone, and from that damp, alien soil bloomed a flower unlike any other. It shimmered with your light, with the beauty of your smile. It brought color to an otherwise barren world.

I stayed there, with you, in this place that was more than I had imagined—and less.

I wish—
I could watch you paint—
a storm of petals—
one more time