The Color Lilac

Death always fascinated him. The great last reef, the final barrier. It never scared him, to him it was the natural order of things at worst and a great adventure at best.

But when she told him it could be really beautiful, the idea seemed so absurd.

Death was horrible, it broke illusions, snuffed dreams, caused so many aches and heartbreaks. No, death couldn’t be beautiful. It was painful, more so for the people who were left behind. Who had to see it unfold, helplessly, as it took as it pleased.

Yet the more he thought about it, the more he realized: beautiful death was all around him. From the fresh lilacs that adorned her vase every morning, that grew sadder and paler as the hours stacked on; to the golden sunken leaves of the autumn tree under which he kissed her the first time.

Unbeknownst to him, death had haunted him in the unlikeliest of places.

And she was dying too, wasn’t she? It became more apparent by the day. And by heaven was she not beautiful?

Everything, from her eyebrows that she now meticulously drew on everyday, to the headwrap she wore on her head now devoid of hair. From her her chapped lips that still felt so soft and sweet against his, to even the cold catheter in her arm.

She too had become a reminder of beautiful death, just like the autumn leaves, the dying lilacs, and all else in-between.

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