All around, there is sand, ash, dirt – stretching on and on to the blood-red horizon and the jagged outline of the desolate mountains. The earth is dry as old bones. Everything is dead here. It has been dead for a long time.
But there is the garden.
White flowers spout from grass, turning their heads to the sun blazing overhead. They grow out in all directions, refusing to stay in their neat rows. They are wild, free, alive, the last green things in a world of grey death.
They are the last embers of a dying fire, but they refuse to stop glowing. They refuse to surrender to night’s black cold.
An old woman tends to them as best as she can. She gives them what little water she manages to collect, saving almost none for herself.
There are no weeds to worry about now, at least, she tells herself. That makes things easier.
There is nothing here but her and her flowers. She knows that one day – one day soon, she fears, for her bones have begun to ache – she will be gone.
She hopes the flowers will remain.
And from them, life will begin anew.
Word Count: 197
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction.