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The flowers died on Monday. Wilting away with the leaves on the ground around them. My fingers graze the cold cement of your headstone, still willing all of this to just be a nightmare. However, as the seasons change, my grief for you perseveres, cutting through my chest like a knife being twisted in a way it will pull it out at the end.
It was summer and I remember golden hour showering you in its warm bask, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore and both of us failing to brush sticking sand off our bodies.
All too quickly, summer gave way to fall and though I hate it, your joy during the season you love most made it worthwhile. While I thought fall has always been the worst season aside from the orange and red hues of the leaves, nothing could ever match your child-like wonder, finding humor in all of the decorations, old and new, along with Halloween costumes worn by the old and young.
You had always said you dreamed of getting married in the fall, the colors too pretty to pass up the best day of your life, needing to be engrained in photos showing your glow, so of course I had to oblige. It turned out to be the perfect fall day too, with a barely there breeze and sunny skies. I would never admit just how scared I was that day, anxiety coursing through my entire being that you would call it off. Instead, I could barely keep myself together as I saw the most beautiful version of your soul, a side I didn’t know was possible.
In all my years of life, I had never fully understood what people meant when they said they found their one true love until I met you.
God, were they right.
This is the second transition to winter without you and nothing about fall has a golden light anymore though. I try to wrap myself in the remembrance of your embrace, warm laughter pouring out of your bones, yet now I feel your touch and sound getting harder to remember.
The flowers died on Monday, my soul dying with them.