My wife loved the cuckoo flowers that bloomed brilliantly white in the early days of spring. Many hours were spent on her behalf trying to cultivate this fragile flower in her garden to no avail. Although, I wouldn't trade those moments for anything, especially now that she is gone.
"She fought as long as she could sir, we're so sorry for your loss." A doctor with weathered eyes spoke softly. He explained for some time what exactly happened but my ears were deaf to his words. My precious wife, the love of my life of 40 years, passed due to an ongoing battle with cancer. I remember the moment they told us her diagnosis and her gentle smile when she reassured the doctor that she would accept any fate God bestowed on her. All the while my heart sank deeply into my chest and my skin grew cold.
I wanted to curse the very God she praised, she was my angel, and taking her from me so soon felt deplorable. But, how could I tell her my selfish wish when she was fighting so hard for just one more moment with us? I held her hand tightly and swallowed my tears, I needed to be her rock, as a man and husband it was my duty to be strong for her. If I wavered, it was in isolation. Somewhere she couldn't see me shed tears of grief.
At first, it didn't feel real, just a bad dream. However, as treatment persisted I watched my lovely wife struggle to do the smallest tasks. I took over the housework and all of her meals with the thought that if I could unburden her, if I could cater to her needs maybe, just maybe she would stay by my side for a little longer. As her hair began to fall out, the nausea set in. Day in and day out she spent huddled over the toilet sobbing softly as for us to not hear. Soon after, she stopped coming out of our room. Her ability to walk was taken by the weakness that inhabited her body. She would look out the window often, staring down at the bare spot in her flower garden. She would sigh heavily before closing her eyes and saying
"If only once, I'd love to see a cuckoo flower again."
So desperately I wanted to give her that one small wish. The doctors had told us by then that she wouldn't live to see another spring. With that knowledge, I set out in our garage to try to bring her wish to fruition. Alas, she succumbed to her illness before I could accomplish my goal.
I stayed emotionless as they lowered her coffin into the ground. My son had his arm around my shoulders in an attempt to comfort this old man, but what comfort could there be without my angel next to me? The rest of that day was a blur. My daughter and her family had come and cleaned, picking through my wife's things. My son and his wife cooked several meals so I wouldn't have to be bothered in my time of grieving. When they left me, I was unsure. All I could do for several days was sit in this quiet house, paralyzed by my loss.
I'm not sure when, but at one point, I had fallen asleep weeping. It was then that I had the first dream.
My wife appeared before me, as beautiful as ever without an ounce of her sickly demeanor left. She called out to me in such a sweet whisper that made my heart flutter. She was wearing a white robe that almost looked like the petals of the cuckoo flower she loved so much. I called to her and begged her to forgive me for not making her final wish come true. She, in the same sweet whisper, assured me that I had not failed her. If only I would go look in the garage I would find the fruits of my labor in full bloom.
Awakening in a startle, I felt the dream swirling in my head and heart. With her honey lace words still ringing in my ears, I rushed to the garage. I was shocked to find a cuckoo flower gently reaching into the sky. It had no bloom yet, but just as my wife had said my labors had finally bore fruit. I dropped to my knees in the dimness of the garage, I couldn't believe after all this time I had finally managed to make my wife's last wish come true. At the time I took it as a sign that she was at peace as long as the flower blooms.
I took the cuckoo flower into the house and placed it next to my wife's side of the bed on the side table. It was the closest to the window and the only side I could sleep on now that she was gone. For whatever reason, I felt at peace with that little flower residing next to me. It felt like my wife was there too, breathing softly in tune with my chest rising and falling. I felt I could smell her shampoo and feel her softly wrinkled skin gently brushing my own. I could swear her light brown locks were tickling my nose like they used to so often. I would get so lost in these moments that often I wouldn't leave the bed at all. To me, it was my safe place, my happiness, a sanctuary that let me feel closer to my late wife.
However, to my children, it was a concern.
"Have you been to dads lately Marcus?" Evelyn asked cautiously.
"Yeah, he's been in that bed every time though. That can't be healthy can it?" Marcus was just as worried as his sister.
"We should go talk to him, maybe he should go see a doctor." Said Evelyn.
The pair agreed that I, for whatever reason, was delusional. They told me over and over that my wife was gone, and and that what I was doing was unhealthy. But if they felt what I felt, they wouldn't be trying to rip me away from her. Their increasing nagging began to eat away at my patience. On one occasion I screamed at my daughter for touching the cuckoo flower.
"How dare you touch your mother's favorite flower!" I said with a cold snarl. The way she looked at me and the way the words came out were both shocking. I was not a violent man, I could probably count on my one hand how many times I yelled at my kids. But when she reached for the flower I couldn't help but explode.
After that, I agreed to see a doctor. I told him of my dreams about my wife and the cuckoo flower and my outburst. He listened to me while slowly nodding.
Once I had finished, he told me that grieving was natural. He told me how much he respected my want and need to grant my wife her last wish even after she was gone. His words made tears fall from my eyes for the first time since she had passed. I felt a weight lift off of my shoulders with the very acknowledgment that I tried my best for her. He patted my shoulder and gave me a prescription for calming medicine. He told me the medicine would help me sleep, as well as relax.
With that, I returned home and the days slowly passed. With each day I felt a little better, however, I couldn't bring myself to go into our room for a while. I think maybe a week had passed since I had been taking the medicine. My grandchildren were over along with my daughter and son. They seemed delighted that I was doing better, eating properly, and leaving the house. I too felt much lighter and more at ease. Looking back now, I should've gotten rid of that cuckoo flower while I was back to myself again.
My grandchildren went to play upstairs. There was a room with old toys that they were fond of and often went to play upstairs when they would come over. That particular day though, Evelyn's daughter and son had made their way into my bedroom and in a scuffle knocked the pot containing the flower to the ground. The pot shattered sending dirt and ceramic pieces everywhere. Upon hearing the crash I rushed upstairs only to find the precious cuckoo flower wilted and askew on the floor amongst the dirt and ceramic.
Rage replaced any other emotion I had. Seeing my wife's favorite flower in such a state broke my heart. In that rage I raised my hand and landed a solid slap upon my granddaughter's cheek. Her brother stepped in front of her, I'm sure to protect her. But in my rage I grabbed his arm with all the force my old body could muster and tossed him aside, breaking his arm in the process. The screams alerted my daughter and son. My son stood between me and my grandkids while my daughter gathered them up. She was screaming at me but I couldn't tell what she was saying, all I could focus on was the wilted cuckoo flower.
I shoved my son out of the way, dropping to my knees to gently lift the flower from the chaos. My son, Marcus, tried to grab at me, I'm sure to turn me around and give me a good talking to but rage still consumed my mind. I could hear my wife's sweet honey-filled whispers in my ear again. But this time she was begging me to get rid of the people who were trying to hurt her.
"Kill them, my love, bury them in my garden and plant my withered body there. Let their lives feed my memory forever so I can bloom."
I want to say that I didn't listen. I want to tell you that I resisted the flowers memorizing honeyed words. Alas, that would be a lie.
With my wife's words echoing deep into my soul, I pulled my gun from the nightstand that once held the flower. My sons fear stricken face will forever remain embedded in my mind as I pulled the trigger sending a bullet into his skull. The piercing scream of my daughter and the pleas of my grandchildren as I pulled the trigger three more times is etched into my heart forever. The silence that met me afterwards was more deafening than when I lost my wife.
These moments were all that was left in my blank mind as I dug for hours in my wife's garden. The hole was deep and large, it had to be to fit all four of them. I spread mulch on their bodies periodically as I began filling in the hole. By morning, the garden was filled and the cuckoo flower planted neatly in the middle of where the hole used to be.
I slowly pulled myself together, I showered off the dirt and blood. I cleaned the brain matter off of my walls and bleached the floors and carpets that had been stained. I changed into my best clothes, the suit she liked the most and went out to the garden once again in hopes of seeing the flower finally bloom. I could tell you that I felt remorse for what I had done, but as the sun rose to the sky and the illuminating white flower petals began to unravel, I couldn't help but feel joy. I felt my wife by my side, watching her favorite flower bloom brilliantly.
As I watched the flower, I could hear the sirens in the distance. I knew they would be coming once my children's spouses realized they never came home. But none of that mattered. They took me into custody after finding the gun and mop bucket full of watery blood. I was questioned for hours and gladly admitted to taking all four of their lives. I told them all the details of their final moments, however, I refused to tell them where I buried them.
I went to court and was convicted. All that was a blur. The one part I do remember clearly is when they said they still hadn't found the bodies. I smiled softly to myself; even now in my cell living out the rest of my short days, I smile knowing that my wife's favorite flower will thrive with so much nutrition even after I'm gone.