I almost couldn’t take it.

Sitting here, looking over the grass waving and trees giggling, I couldn’t help but smile. 

Don’t get me wrong, I have a deep love for winter, and the unconditional blanket that wraps around me, how it doesn’t leave until the Earth shifts awake. 

However, I have to treasure the warm summer air. Bugs buzzing and croaking under the sun with the white window cracked open. Flowy dresses twining into my body, condensation weeping into tables that hold fresh tulips and watermelon, and the smell of nature sticking to me like a best friend who doesn’t want to leave. 

When I look out, not only do I see and hear summer--I also feel it. A compelling gust of wind whips around me, causing hair to flutter with it. The sun holds my skin, letting me know, there’s nothing it wouldn’t do for me.

Summer holds a special place in my heart. 

Always and forever. 

But so does he.

My legs sway off the window ledge, head leaning against the wall, hair damp and clinging to my back from swimming in the forest’s lake, my body covered in a light pink nightgown.

It reminds me about the first time I swam in it. 

It was autumn, freezing cold. I got pushed in. I remember how my head fell under the surface, and how everything disappeared. I couldn’t see a single thing. Hear a single thing. 

The cold water numbed me until I felt nothing.

Until I felt arms wrap around me. 

I take a deep breath. 

I miss you.

In my garden, angelic white roses grew. 

I had no one to thank for that, other than him.

Tummy filled sunflowers, talkative orchids, royal lilies--you name it, it’s all in my garden. I do love flowers, I mean, how could I not? 

They’re just like humans. They try to touch the sky, spread open their petals whether or not they want to, wither away to then come back again, wishing for a more adventurous life than before. 

I once got asked what flower I was. 

I said a white rose.

With the daylight walking to the door, a magical gold color scurries to every corner it could hide in. 

I swing my legs back over the window ledge, turn my body into my room, and stand. I always find myself wanting to sit there, half way in my home, half way in a brutal, but wondrous place called Earth. Yes, it has its problems, but there’s so much more to see than the bad. 

I wish you would have just talked to me.

There’s greatness in the world. You may have to go searching for it, or it may appear right in front of you. Mine did, it tripped in front of me actually. Nonetheless, there’s kindness and honesty hidden within this place. 

Maybe it’s under a farmer's soil, placing itself into the roots. Or perhaps it’s perfectly human-shaped, walking around to clear their mind. But what would I know?

I walk over to my canvas, gripping a big paint brush, preparing myself to paint the landscape I see covered with a shiny gold quilt. 

I would say it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. But I would be lying. 

The most beautiful thing I have seen had tasteful honey eyes, a loving mouth, playful hands that could serenade you to sleep. He was also very patient; patient enough to play a game of chess with me every time I asked. He was a great cook, one who would spend hours in the kitchen for a single night’s dinner. He always had two shoulders to cry on, ready for the tears to catch with his shirt. 

He wasn’t just beautiful, but loyal and funny, too. The most capable, unique, trustful person there ever was. 

He was everything to me.

He was my love.

He’s now everything. Including gone. 

I paint. I paint till I cannot any longer. Till my arm tears off, or I go insane. But I paint until there’s nothing left. 

I now realize that I’m crying.

I spent every day with him. I cooked, cleaned, and gardened with him. I walked with him to the cafe every Sunday. I kissed him goodbye everytime he went to work. I stayed up long nights to talk with him. 

I thought I understood him. 

Oh, how I was wrong.

A couple weeks after I heard the soul breaking news, I stared out the white window. I remember sitting down, thinking I wouldn’t be able to stand back up. That the world had its claws on my shoulders, digging in, and I was screaming. 

But I hadn’t opened my mouth unless it was for sobbing. 

I remember looking out over the meadow, my garden, and the sky. How they all had each other. They always could say hello to each other, and talk about their shared memories. Always be connected, even if they had to say goodbye. 

That day, it was sunny out. The slightest breeze making my eyelashes quiver. 

I hadn’t eaten anything, even with my distant neighbors trying their best to feed me. 

Nightmares plagued my sleep, not letting me wake up without crying and screaming for help. And his arms would help me—hold me.

I sometimes still have them. The nightmares. 

I just hold myself instead. 

I scanned over what weeds and animals lived in the meadow. How many clouds I could see, and what they looked like. How many different types of flowers my garden held.

Starving sunflowers, lonely orchids, humble lilies, you name it. 

I love colorful flowers, and that’s why I wouldn’t ever put white flowers in my garden. Too bland, too inhumane. Too unique, too different. 

But yet, I saw white roses blooming in my garden that day.

I have never touched a white rose, let alone grown one. There’s a great chance they could die, be stolen, or anything really. Any other type of rose would do fine, but white roses would be too eye-catching. 

And I now know no one, including myself, that would plant any here.

Except one. 

But he’s gone. 

That’s when I realized he planted them for me.

That woeful day when he asked me what type of flower I was, immediately after I answered, he went for a walk. I didn’t think anything of it. 

He went on walks--a lot. He always told me it was so he could clear his mind, find a new perspective, or because he was bored. He also always came back with a treat for me and him. 

He is the best.

Even with him gone, he gave me something to treat me with. 

I’m staring at him. On my canvas, in my room, in my house. With tear-stained cheeks.

Drained and unwillingly, I move towards the hallway. I make my way down the stairs, to the front door. I shuffle into a cotton coat, and slip on sandals. At last, I turn the door knob, and step outside. I walk on the cobblestone path, not daring to veer off. Not daring to get lost--again. 

The soil-filled garden, coming closer and closer. I open the wood gate, half expecting it to not recognize me and keep closed. 

One foot in front of the other, making my way towards the open area, now with many more white roses grown and taken care of. All vulnerable, and all an angelic white. 

I take a deep breath. 

I almost couldn’t take it.

Being here, in this garden, in this world. It’s all too much. It’s all too much without him. My heart hurts, cracks, breaks down every time I think about him. The key, missing, to never unlock its safe again. The pen with no paper. The peanut butter will never touch the jelly. 

Never complete. 

My hand reaches out for the closest rose, hoping it will shake it. Even if it did, would it be his hand? Or some strangers that I would have to start all over again with? 

It feels real, the petals, the wind making it wave hello. 

My whole being aches at once. 

I never got to ask what type of flower you are, my love.