Wilted Flowers

Translated and adapted from Spanish by the author.

Isabel spent her final days in a hospital bed on the third floor. Nurses took care of her from morning until night, while old friends visited her in the afternoon. Everyone knew that their visit would be the last. She wasn’t worried about arriving at the end of her road; she welcomed it, looking forward to reuniting with her husband after twenty years of absence. Bidding farewell to those she cared for were the only bittersweet moments in those splendid spring days. In the morning before daily visits, she gazed outside at the hibiscus garden meticulously maintained by hospital staff. She sighed upon the sight of the flowers bathing in the eight o’clock sun rays.

– How beautiful the colors are. How magnificent, the sun. What a blessing to live for eighty-six years.

At two o’clock, Louis arrived. He brought with him a bouquet of roses, because he knew they were her favorite. He regaled her with some chocolate cake from the bakery, because he wanted to see her smile like a child. He spent three hours with her, chatting about the past; the distant past as much as the most recent fifteen years. Louis realized that she didn’t possess the same energy as a few weeks prior. The illness had robbed her of it, gradually, and without compromise. Despite her visible weakness, Isabel laughed at his jokes, and could even tell her own. A nurse who walked by the open door of her room even caught herself chuckling. Finally, at five o’clock, he had to leave.

— Will you be back tomorrow?
— Every day.

They both knew that any day could be the final one. He wanted to express how her presence had saved him through the last few years, but couldn’t articulate it in words. He settled with giving her his hand. She responded by holding it firmly, as if to have him stay until her own departure.

— My son.

Fighting back tears, Louis gave her a tender kiss on the cheek. He saw her for the last time that afternoon.

During the last fifteen years, Isabel came to appreciate Louis’ consistent efforts in spending time with her. Every weekend, he stopped by to help her tidy up the house, clean the bathroom, and assist with her cooking. They would enjoy lunch before taking a walk in her garden behind the house, marvelling at the blossoming tulips in the spring. In the summertime, zinnias and petunias. In the autumn, dahlias. During winter, they would step outside to take in the fresh air, before stepping back into the coziness of her home for the rest of their conversation. They discussed many things. Isabel recounted stories of her happy childhood with her parents in the countryside. Louis related some moments of the war that had preceded the past fifteen years. He allowed himself to describe certain unpleasant anecdotes, but preferred sharing memories of his companions; especially that of his best friend Richard. While he cleaned the bathroom and learned new recipes in the kitchen, he imagined how Richard’s life would have turned out had the mortar projectile not landed so close. When he told jokes during lunch, he tried to resist images of Richard at the table with them.

— What is it, Dear?
— It’s nothing. Sometimes, the past comes back.
— The past always passes by, like cloudy weather that blocks out the sun. On some occasions, you’ll find out that the past is the sun.

Upon reestablishing an ordinary routine after his return from abroad, the harsh noises of the street, and the unpredictable shouts in the public square no longer incited the fear of death. He expelled it from his thoughts with the reminder that the war had already ended. Yet, he could not recover from the abrupt end of his companions in the trenches. He therefore decided to live in the name of those whose lives were robbed, and carried out all that he could to repair years of misery. During his spare time, he grew his own garden, read classic literature, and played guitar with friends in a cafe. He made the most of his intact body, running by the river every morning. Once a week, he accompanied other veterans in need of support. Louis reconstructed what had been destroyed within himself. Despite the traumas of war that plagued him without respite, he came to appreciate his life more than ever; more, still, than his time before the war.

— What is it?
— I don’t feel good today, Dear. I’m not sure why.

Louis brought her to the hospital for a diagnosis. A few weeks of medical tests came to a sobering conclusion: Isabel had less than six months. When the doctors informed her, she didn’t react. She remained quiet, her fixed gaze lingering in the distance as if trying to solve a mathematical problem. Finally, she turned to Louis.

— So it is, my time has come.

Feeling his heavy heartbeat, Louis tried to find words to break the decidedly gloomy silence.

— I’ll take care of you as much as you need it.

At first, the illness didn’t affect Isabel’s daily routine. She got up at seven in the morning every day to prepare breakfast, before spending the next few hours taking care of the household. She also read some science-fiction novels, and chatted with her friends on the phone. Isabel kept at arm’s length what was destroying her little by little from within. When Louis visited her on the weekends, they still had lunch before taking a stroll in her garden behind the house, laughing at the simple absurdities they encountered in life. In spite of enduring a pain that became more and more palpable, she focused on what the days still offered her. “As long as I’m alive, I must live.”

Two months after the diagnosis, she couldn’t hide her slowing gait, nor her shortened breath that revealed a subtle fight for oxygen. Louis increased his visits to twice a week. Eventually, three times a week. When he received a phone call confiding in him her inability to get out of bed, Louis decided to move into her house. He traveled farther for work as a consequence; his eyes sunken from fatigue. Yet, as soon as he left the office, he didn’t hesitate to run errands through the city, nor did he waste a minute getting anything the alarming decline demanded. He gave her chocolates whenever she wanted them. He brought her to her favorite restaurants in order to distract her, if but for a moment. He did so up until the decisive moment when she had to move to the third floor of the hospital, where she would spend her final days. Taking care at every step, Louis appreciated every act. For he viewed every challenge he encountered as a privilege. He thought of deceased companions like Richard, who never would care for his own family at the end of their road.

Life in the trenches alternated between violence and inertia. A battle could suddenly begin, announced by a diabolical symphony of artillery which could reduce the most hardened soldiers to tears. They ducked and waited, their faces smeared with blood and mud, hoping for the explosions to remain far away. And when they were ordered to leave the trenches for an attack, those who didn’t die from bullets or explosions perished with blades sunken into their torso. If the mission didn’t lead to any territorial gain, survivors would retrace their steps, observing body parts of fallen companions along the way. Boredom replaced terror between battles. The monotony which permitted combatants to regenerate their adrenaline, allowed Louis and Richard to acquaint themselves. They were collecting munitions, when a brief exchange revealed that not only did they come from the same state, but also the same region. There was much to share while the violence tormented their world.

— My mother lives in a beautiful corner North of the city, where she passes much of her time gardening. You can see tulips in the spring. There are also zinnias and petunias in the summer, and dahlias in autumn.
— My parents died when I was still a child, so I was sent to live with my uncle. Given he was far too busy with work, I had to fend for myself. One of my first memories outside was grabbing leftover food from plates at restaurant terraces.
— On weekends, we like to have lunch at her place before taking a stroll in the garden. This is what I’m looking forward to the most. War has made me realize what I’ve taken for granted.
— My uncle died when I was twelve years old, and was forced into a group home until I was eighteen. My days were filled with arguments and fights with the other kids. When this is all over, I hope to find something peaceful for myself.

Richard and Louis glanced at each other, nodding.

They ended up knowing each other for almost a year and a half, sharing childhood memories, as well as the horrors of combat. Louis, for his part, never succumbed to shell shock. He supported Richard whenever his friend felt overwhelmed during any violent episode. Given that they didn’t know how much longer the war would last, they promised to take charge of delivering the other’s farewell letter, should one not make it. That moment arrived on a winter morning, four months before the end of the conflict. A surprise attack from the enemy initiated with a swarm of planes, which allowed the infantry to advance. Although rifles kept the land assault at bay, the antagonist’s artillery reached the frontline trenches where Louis and Richard were firing shots. A mortar’s impact in front of Richard killed him instantly, leaving nothing aside from remnants of clothing clinging to pieces of flesh, a helmet, and an identification tag.

— Are you learning new songs on the guitar?

Isabella’s question shook him from his daydream.

— Yes… We’re practicing a few new pieces that we hope to play at the cafe.
— You wrote them yourself, right?
— Yes, in collaboration with the group.
— That’s wonderful, Louis. I’m always amazed by your musical talent. But why don’t you try singing as well?
— Haven’t you heard me in the shower?
— That was you? I thought it was a cat giving birth to her kittens.

A nurse outside Isabel’s room chuckled. Louis couldn’t resist as well. Such humor always made him smile, alleviating him from his traumas for a while. Isabel felt that this time, however, her jokes wouldn’t distract him from reality for too long. Sitting on a white metallic chair beside the bed, he was preparing for his second difficult farewell in fifteen years. He realized that an expected departure would be as painful as the abrupt exit of a companion on the battlefield. He didn’t dare express it. He wanted to keep chatting and enjoy each second. He wished he could stop, if not turn back time to the days after the war, during which he created for the first time a happy life. Isabel read his thoughts.

— Look at the flowers outside. We can only appreciate its vibrant blooming colours for no more than a few weeks. Depending on the type, no more than a few days. Why can’t we do so during the entire year? Whether they live for decades or just for a little while, they have something to offer to those who seek it — a fullness of life. They won’t exist forever, but they will forever have existed. This is what we must celebrate.

Years later, Louis committed to celebrating the flowers, long since wilted. He remained grateful for the joyful moments with those he cared for, and came to accept tragedies as an inevitable part of the whole. He would always remember the most difficult moment when the war had just ended: donning his military uniform and knocking on Isabella’s door, his eyes red and his breathing stifled.

Daniel Sumarto, March 2026

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