“Father, what’s that flower called?”
“That, my dear, is called a tulip.”
“And that one?”
“An Iris.”
“What about that one?”
“A red rose.”
~*~*~*~
That was years ago. Now I stand in front of his grave, craving to know why life had to slip from his hooves so soon.
The clouds overhead refused to disperse or go somewhere else. I know it’s the Pegasi’s job to rid the sky of them when needed, but I suppose I didn’t like them up there. It made this whole place even more depressing than it already was.
I brought as many flowers as I could to his grave. There, laid in front, was a tulip, an iris, a daisy, and finally, a single red rose.
That rose very much reminded me of my cutie mark and how I came to get it. It was because of my father.
He introduced me into the gardening business, as well as the many flowers. I know everything from a simple daisy to a freesia to a statice.
Anyway, I was just learning about roses—the proper way to care for them was the current topic I was on. My father was away and told me to wait for him before I tried planting one myself, but the excitement overwhelmed me.
I attempted it. On the first try, I ended up pricking my hoof on one of the thorns. It was my fault though. My hooves were shaky and I wasn’t paying attention at all. On the second try, I actually managed to do it.
I was so proud of myself and knew my father would be too. He returned not long after. At first, he questioned in an angry tone why I hadn’t waited for him like he asked. Then he noticed how good it actually was, telling me I actually had quite the talent. Finally, he noticed the blood dripping from my hoof and the discarded rose I had chosen to not mess with any further.
He only chuckled and helped me clean up the wound, as well as bandaging it up. While doing so, he told me how he was much like I in his olden days. Once done with his stories, he pointed toward my flank. I craned my neck only to see a mark there. But not just any mark. My cutie mark!
That rose on my flank proved I had a knack for gardening. I knew right then and there that gardening was what I wanted to pursue in life.
But things took a dark turn after the events of that day.
My father fell ill, and strangely, the doctors didn’t know what it was or how to fix it.
He suffered day to day. He would lie in bed. Sweat would from on his head and his breathing was always so fast. He had random moments where he screamed in pain. He was hurting so much, and it hurt me so much just to hear it.
That continued on for months. At least until I took it upon myself to end it all. I couldn’t bear to him suffer the way he was.
He heard me approaching. He turned his head to see me, but his eyes went wide as he saw what I was holding in my mouth. He then closed them, knowing I was doing it for his sake. But I will never forget the fear and pain he held in his eyes.
After that day, guilt nagged me. It still comes and bites me whenever possible. At the most random times, it strikes. Mainly when I’m doing something that has to do with flowers—planting them, selling them, even talking or thinking about them.
Sometimes, I regret what I’ve done, but for the most part I don’t. If I didn’t do that, who knows how long he would’ve suffered, or if his suffering would’ve ended at all?
Now I’m here, standing in front of the grave. His grave.
Pain’s hand reaches out and clutches my heart, squeezing it hard. Tears threaten to fall, but I bite my lip and don’t let them slip. It seems foolish to cry when it’s my fault my father is dead. I know he would’ve just continued to hurt, but I forgot the possibility that he could’ve gotten better. Maybe healing would’ve taken its own course. And even if not, my father is still dead by my hooves. I killed him. Not the sickness, but me.
The wind screams in my ears, a sign of a possible incoming storm. And even so, I refuse to move.
If it pours, let it pour on me. If thunder booms and lightning strikes, let it do so. I’ve never visited my dad’s grave before since even the thought of him hurts. What made me decide to visit today, I don’t know, but I did, and I’m not going to leave.
How could I? Never visit and only stay for a few minutes once I do? There’s no way I’m leaving.
And besides, I deserve to be rained on.
Rain begins to fall. Soft at first, but it falls heavier and heavier. It’s like the clouds wish to cry.
Now my tears will no longer stay in as they begin to fall. My knees are shaky and my lips are quivering. The sight before me is now blurry. I can no longer stand, for my knees won’t let me. I fall to the ground.
And then, I try to speak.
“I-I…” My voice is jittery. Shaky. Unstable. “I’m sorry, Dad!” The words finally come out, the words I’ve wanted to say to him for so long.
“I’m so sorry!” I sob uncontrollably. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why does it have to hurt so bad?
I lay there for what seems like hours before I finally decide to stand and leave the place. I still want to cry, but I wipe the tears away and begin walking towards the entrance, keeping my head down.
I’m only a mere three feet away, but I feel something—something that’s telling me to turn around. I question whether I should for a moment, but I finally decide to do so and turn around, bracing myself for nothing but the stone slab and the flowers which add the only color to this place.
Instead, I see my father. A ghostly figure, of course. I wipe my eyes a few times; wanting to make sure this is all real. And it is.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stands with a soft smile. Then he picks up the rose, sniffs it, and widens his smile. He looks at me, and then he fades away.
I smile as well. “Thank you, Dad.”
Then I walk away.
