Morbid Thoughts by Alyssa Solis

I wonder what will become of my grandmother's beautiful garden at the time of her passing 

I know it is a morbid thought 

Still I wonder 

Who will maintain the flowers and fruits the way she has? 

Will they wither without her love? 

Will the cala lilies turn brown and crisp with dreaded age? 

Will the pomegranate tree cease to bear her fruits? 

Will the figs fall and rot as if to mock me, like missed opportunities? 

Will the rose petals flutter as they fall, like I shall to my knees, once they discover she is no longer around? 

Their deep rouges and soft pinks that she would pluck for us to take home, their fragrance forever unmatched

I always say it's because she waters them with love

Love so sickly sweet and powdery perfumed

Will the lush lawn upon which I used to skip and leap and fall return to ashy soil? 

The porch steps, once stained with the juice of fresh fruits that we would wipe from our tiny mouths with giggles and glee, would become muted in color and empty, and dusty

The setting of my childhood would be devoid of what once made it wonderful

Perhaps it is the illusion that nostalgia paints, upon which, reminiscing, we look at so longingly 

Maybe it is simply because I was small and my lenses were tinted rose

Whatever it may be 

I wonder still 

Who would be there to tend to her garden?

Who, if not me?