One shots

'Love And Grief'

Inspired by (and for the best reading experience): 'Garden Song' - Phoebe Bridgers

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'Because growing up isn't always easy, and neither is letting go.'

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The young man lifted his head, his eyes solemnly staring up at the circular attic window of the slowly decaying, desolate house.

A house that seemed to have been there since the beginning of time, by the looks of it.

A house he grew up in and spent 17 years of his life in.

He grew up here - It was once a place so full of misery, devoid of gentleness. It was a place where his dreams formed and withered at the same time.

A house that now serves more as a graveyard than it ever has as a home.

Looking back down at the wooden front door and the slowly rotting porch, he only seemed to remember how he often used to sit outside on the doorstep, sitting in front of a home that was never there in the first place. Only a house where strangers resided.

He was taller now, an adult. He learned what it means to love and be loved - He likes to believe that he does, at least.

He knows that the 'Love' his parents showed him back then wasn't healthy, he's aware of that, but when he left without looking back he learned that that was the only way his parents knew how to love.
That's how they were shown how to love, and it was the only love they had received.

But he learned of that fact too late.

And even now, he couldn't hate them. Not even a little.

He couldn't even hate the garden that they planted after he left - One that was full of his favorite flowers.

One dedicated solely to him.

A garden he only saw in pictures his younger brother left behind for him, along with letters dedicated to him inside a small box where cards for his birthday, achievements, and holidays were stored for six continuous years by his parents and younger brother in hopes of his return.

A return that never took place during the time they were still alive.

A return, that was too late.

Sometimes, the man thinks about how it could have been if his parents were treated kinder when they were younger, and grew up loved - how nice would that have been?

How would he and his brother have turned out, then?

They could have had late-night baking sessions, game nights, picnics to the park, or visits to the beach that didn't end up leaving a bitter aftertaste - They all could have tended to this garden together. As a family.

They could have been a proper family.

But the flowers have withered now, the once fertile soil has rotted, the house has begun its decay, and the murky pond water has dried up.

His heart would fit right into this place, a small voice tells him.
(It did, once.)

Yet, somehow, coming back here didn't hurt as much as it used to. Sure, it still pained him, but it wasn't an angry sadness like it used to be.

The feeling now is dull and smaller, melancholic with questions such as 'what-ifs' and 'maybes'.

Instead of anger, it was grief that took place in his heart and planted its roots deeply.

(It felt suffocating.)

A grief of what used to be and for what could have been.

But that's just how it goes -- For him, his life has always been about grief, and grief has always been about love.

You cannot grieve without love.

If only he realized it sooner.

And perhaps one day, his heart will look as beautiful as that garden once did.

Alive. Colorful.

The man's gaze flitted between the occasionally cracked and dusty windows, but he never dared to take a step past the old fence gate to take a closer look.

It's as if he was still the 17-year-old boy who ran away with regret marred into his bones and tears etched into the back of his eyes as he left it all behind--

-- Just like he left his younger brother and parents to rot.

Now, he could only tighten the grip of his hand holding onto the splintering fence gate that creaked softly with every movement.

He lowered his gaze and turned away from the house and its memories one last time.
He turned his back, now more mature and upright instead of small and hunched as it was then, towards a house that had died long ago.

A monochromatic view of hazy gray and diluted brown is all that's left behind now.

After all, one wants to stay tied to a graveyard of things past.

No one wants to be haunted by ghosts of the past. Not willingly.

And sometimes letting go is the hardest yet most logical thing to do, even if it hurts.

To let go is to grow up, after all.

He slowly walked away instead of running away like back then, yet his steps were just as resolute.

What greeted him was the sun shining brightly, and he felt himself growing warmer in the evening glow.
His heartbeat was no longer sporadic; it was a calm rhythm, and perhaps, just maybe, that's how love was always supposed to sound like all along.

Out of nowhere, two children ran past him from the direction of the house, both wearing casual white t-shirts and washed-out jeans - both of which appeared to be worn often, yet loved.

The man halted his steps and watched silently as the children, who looked all too familiar, hurried along hand in hand, laughing and smiling almost just as brightly as the sun as they made their way toward a nearby field of sunflowers that grew next to the old house.

A soft and cool breeze accompanied them as if leading them home.

"Brother, wait up for me!" the smaller one complained, yet his grin never failed to cease even as his chest heaved up and down.
The older boy just laughed out loud at his whining but still slowed down to accompany the younger's speed as he pulled him toward people who seemed to be their parents before they both threw themselves into their arms.

The parents held the two of them tightly, the father hoisting the younger boy up into his arms as the older boy held onto his mother's warm hand.

The man looked at the family of four smiling from a distance - A picture of a loving, warm family painted itself before him, surrounded by sunflowers and a golden hue.

Yes, the man mused, this is how it should have been.

He continued walking again as the picture slowly started to faded away and the laughing quieted down gradually. All that was left now was the field of sunflowers, a reminder of what could have and had been, and the old house.

At least now, he thought, they will have their happy ending.

At least in death, they are loved.

Forever.

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