Garden with a wilted flower

Maybe it’s just the weight of my nonzero years speaking, but my garden is nothing more than a graveyard of wilted flowers now. It wasn’t always this way. I remember when it thrived, when the colors stretched as far as I could see, when the sunlight would fall like a golden veil over everything I had planted, and in that moment, the world felt alive. The mornings used to be something to look forward to. The way the light touched the petals, how the wind carried their scent…I felt like I had something worth protecting.

But not now. The sun still rises, but it does nothing. Its light falls on empty ground, over brittle stems and petals long turned to dust. There are no flowers left waiting for its warmth, no colors to be set ablaze by its touch. The mornings come and go, indifferent, just a pale reminder of what once was. The light arrives, but it brings no life with it. And somehow, this absence, the stark contrast between what I remember and what exists now; feels darker than the night itself.

I look at this nightmare, at the barren land that was once something beautiful, and I envy the past version of myself, the one who stood surrounded by all those colors, who could still believe in the sun. But as I stand here now, I start to wonder…was it ever real? Were there ever flowers to begin with? Or was it all just an illusion, a trick of the mind? Maybe it was nothing more than the desperate hope of someone who wanted to believe that things could grow here, that this place could hold something worth keeping. Or maybe, for a time, it truly was real, and I just lost it somewhere along the way. I don’t know.

What I do know is that there’s no future for this garden anymore. It has settled into its silence, its stillness. There is no new growth waiting beneath the soil, no dormant seeds biding their time. It is just what it is: a landscape of loss (I lost!). 

I stand before this barren garden, a quiet landscape that once echoed with the promise of life. I lost what I cherished most, each petal and every burst of color now a memory carried by the wind. The earth here is stripped of its former bloom, and in that absence, I feel the weight of endings settling in.

Yet, in the stillness of this loss, a simple truth emerges: endings are part of nature’s way of making room for the new. As I walk among the wilted stems, I begin to understand that every season has its own purpose. The emptiness of today does not erase the beauty of yesterday; it speaks to the natural cycle of change that touches every part of our lives.

Every morning, the sun rises as it always has, its gentle light falling on this quiet ground. There is no longer the vibrant glow of flourishing petals, but a soft, persistent warmth that carries a subtle invitation. This steady light reminds me that even when everything seems to have faded, there is a promise in each new day…a promise that the earth might, in its own time, begin to tell a different story.

In this pause, there is a quiet call to care again, not to force a return to what was, but to nurture the potential for something new. I choose to see this barren space as a blank page, ready for fresh growth. The silence here is not a final statement of defeat, but a gentle moment of reflection where the lessons of loss can lay the groundwork for future hope.

I decide to tend this land with the same honesty that has carried me through the seasons. I honor the memory of what once was while opening my heart to the possibility of a new beginning. Each empty patch of soil holds the soft murmur of tomorrow; a reminder that even in the face of decay, there is a space for renewal, if only we dare to trust in the slow unfolding of life.

So here I stand, accepting the quiet sorrow of the present and choosing to believe in the simple, unadorned promise of tomorrow. With each passing day, I will listen to the gentle call of the sun, nurture the barren ground with care, and allow the scars of loss to become the roots from which a new, honest bloom may one day emerge.

This isn’t a new idea, nor a novel metaphor; comparing life to a garden, or rather, existence itself to one. Every person has a region of their own, a space they cultivate, something they cherish. A place that, at some point, flourished under their care. Some tend to their gardens with patience and love. Others, whether by fate or neglect, watch theirs wither. Not everyone is meant to be a gardener. Some never learned how. Some never had the right soil or the right conditions. And some, no matter how much effort they pour into it, can only stand by as everything crumbles to dust.

In the end, perhaps the truth is that our gardens, like our lives, are shaped by both care and circumstance. Whether our plots flourish or fade, there is a quiet power in accepting what is and daring to hope for what might be. And so, I keep tending my garden, holding on to the belief that even in the silence of loss, a new beginning can take root, I choose become a persistent gardener.