I've never been fond of flowers.
I know, it can seem surprising, but I've never been moved by the beauty of a flower, to the great despair of my mother. She didn't understand how I could be so insensitive upon seeing the delicate colors and complex patterns of the petals, with each flower being as different and as unique as the other. Everybody marvels at their existence, but I never did; I can't help it, it's just how my character is. I've never been a particularly sensitive boy. I was more focused on the practical aspect of things, what could be done and shaped. Flowers were beautiful, that much was true, but there was no purpose, nothing useful that could be done with them. So I kept thinking until that day.
It all started back a long while ago but it never truly began, to be honest. It was just a simple moment, one temporary moment in time that can never be lived again and that now only exists in my memory. This moment has nothing fantastic nor extraordinary about it, but I cherish it nonetheless.
I was going to a graveyard to pay tribute to a recently deceased grandmother I barely knew about, a bouquet of nameless flowers in my hand. My mother was working that day but she had insisted I bring the bouquet with me, even if I hadn't been particularly close with her own mother. The graveyard was outside the city, away from its usual hustle. I expected to feel some apprehension at the idea of me, a little boy going alone to a graveyard, the place of nightmares where ghosts burst out from the graves, like it was depicted in all the cartoons of my time, but I didn't feel such worry when coming close to the stony gates. I was a very down-to-earth boy, and such myths didn't really have an effect as strong as it had on the other kids. On the contrary, I found the graveyard quite peaceful, full of a silence that was so rare to listen to in my time back at the city. We didn't live in its heart, but close enough to hear its rumble everyday.
I stopped in front of the gates, curious. The graveyard was devoid of any concrete and no line came to shape the usual ranges of graves, which were dotted there and there, like small dots of gray on the green emerald of the grass. Some might have said this graveyard was abandoned, untaken care of, but I found it reassuring, in some way. It was a big graveyard, and graves seemed to stretch endlessly toward the city.
A little bit discouraged by the size of this enormous resting place, I took a step back to have a better look at it and that's when I saw it. An angel. I startled a little, surprised at first, then relaxed as I studied more attentively the statue that guarded the entrance, perched on a pillar of stone. I immediately found it beautiful. It had long, slightly curled hair flowing between its sculpted wings. Soft features brought up the harmony and the peacefulness of its face. The angel was looking at nothing in particular, just starting at the graves with its smooth eyes devoid of any pupil. One might have found that unsettling, but I was fascinated by the beauty of the statue and the calm that emanated from it. It immediately lifted off my nervousness and I gazed at it with wonder, my mission almost forgotten, when I saw him.
It was a man, standing in front of the statue, and staring at it with such hatred that I nearly dropped the bouquet of flowers. The man was standing perfectly still; it hardly seemed like he was even breathing. His eyes were two endless wells of hatred and anger mixed in the hardened features of his face. The youth of it contrasted too much with the dark emotions he was displaying, creating a bizarre, almost grotesque combination. He was wearing a brown jacket and a little red bowtie, of the same colors as his suspenders. His old-fashioned style almost made me smile, but the story his eyes told discouraged me from it. He held firmly in the palm of his hand a pot of sunflowers, of which the color was almost blinding in the grayness of the graveyard. I was even more surprised by this choice of flowers, for I had never seen any sunflowers on any tomb, ever, and I don't think I will.
I only stared at the man, waiting. Then his shoulders simply slumped, and all combativeness seemed to immediately leave him. He ducked his head, defeated, and went on his way in the graveyard. There was something about this man that had tingled my childish curiosity and I followed him between the graves, careful as to not make any sound.
The man either didn't hear me or pretended he didn't care and continued, going deeper and deeper into the graveyard. I was lost in a forest of stone, under the watchful eyes of the statue, and I kept scurrying from grave to grave until finally the man stopped. He stood for a few moments in front of a grave and crouched, the sunflowers as bright as ever in his hand. I hid behind a grave, biting my lip, torn between my curiosity and my natural fear of adults, when the curiosity won. I got out of my hiding place and came strolling behind the man, making sure I was noisy enough to announce my presence. He didn't look back, not even once, and I finally stood next to him.
The man didn't speak, didn't move, didn't do anything. He didn't acknowledge my presence, only stared at the grave with a deep, strange kind of sadness that I would come to recognize as mourning. I didn't move either and I kept my gaze fixed on him. Finally the man turned his head and his eyes met mine. There was such a contrast between the youth of his face and the age of his eyes that I didn't speak for a few moments, stunned. He didn't dismiss me, as any other adult would have; his silent attention was what gave me the courage to speak.
"Who are they for?" I finally said, pointing the cheerful sunflowers out.
It was a stupid question, of course; I only had to read the names written on the tombstone to know who these flowers were intended for, but I wanted to hear it from the man himself, not just from a silent reading of the tomb. He seemed to understand the other layer of my question, apparently glad I asked.
"My best friend. She loved them. I hope her husband does, too, but what she liked he liked, so I'm not too worried about that."
His voice was just like his face, young and childish, the words bouncing and rising in the air before dissolving in the wind. However, he sounded uncomfortable, and I could see by the nervousness of his gaze and the way he kept shooting little glances there and there that he was not accustomed to such places.
I nodded and finally glanced at the tombstone, squinting my eyes to make out the letters lost among the plain gray of the tomb.
"She loved sunflowers?"
Again, a stupid question, but with a hidden message beneath. The man brightened at this, the hint of a smile, the first since he had entered the graveyard, rising on his lips.
"Oh boy, did she love them. And not just any sunflowers, mind you!"
He lifted the pot and brought it to my face, studying the flowers. A draft of bittersweet smell came to my nose and I tilted my head to breath in the perfume.
"Freshly picked from Van Gogh's garden. I hope he won't mind."
As ignorant as I was on the subject of flowers and art, I had absolutely not the slightest idea of who Van Gogh was. Confusion must have shown on my face, because the man frowned.
"Van Gogh? Oi, what's happened to your history?" he exclaimed, ruffling my hair with his free hand.
The simple gesture made me giggle, a real, childish giggle, full of life, which broke the wind and the heavy silence of death resting on the graveyard. The giggle seemed to breath life into the man and he smiled, his lips only mimicking mine at first, then an authentic fit of laughter broke from his lips, spilling onto the sunflowers and the tombstone. I saw a few tears running down his cheeks as well but I didn't say anything, only laughing and laughing with the man that looked so young to me.
Finally we stopped, and the man looked at me with what seemed to be like gratitude. I didn't know what I had done to relieve him, but I was glad to know that I had at least helped him.
"What's your name?" I asked, curious now.
"The Doctor."
"Doctor of what?"
"Nothing, just… the Doctor."
The words seemed to come out painfully now, and the smile he had been wearing was slowly fading from his lips. I only nodded, accepting the man's name as "The Doctor", nothing more. An adult might have questioned it, but a child didn't need such precisions. He turned toward the sunflowers, a deep frown on his face, and very gently, put the pot on the earth. It sunk a little into the mellow soil of the grave then stabilized, the sunflowers lolling their big, disproportionate heads in the air.
Then a miracle happened, and to this day it might be my most precious memory. The Doctor softly exhaled on the sunflowers and a golden, bright glow of shifting light escaped his lips, fluttering in the air, breaking and reforming in the midst of the wind. The Doctor exhaled again and the golden trickle of light came resting upon the sunflowers, which warmly welcomed this new source of energy. Their petals shivered, their stems trembled, and that was it. They absorbed this light just as they would have absorbed the sun's. Their petals pulsed quietly with a golden aura for a few seconds, then it stopped. The Doctor stepped back and I looked at him, marveled, having no words for the miracle I just witnessed, but he seemed no longer to see me. He just stared at the letters on the tombstones, reading the names of his loved ones. I got back a little, feeling that he needed his privacy. A few moments passed, and I understood that perhaps it was best that I left him alone. I slipped away silently, looking behind my shoulders, not wanting to disturb him, remembering suddenly the bouquet of flowers my hand was firmly clutching. I looked at them with new eyes now, and I put them carefully, with a new form of respect, onto the grave of my grandmother. I didn't know her much, but the flowers had acquired a new symbol for me and I felt like everyone deserved it, even a relative I hadn't had much love for. I was ready to leave the graveyard and I was resolved not to look back, not to search among the skyline of tombstones for the Doctor's silhouette, even though I was dying to say goodbye to him.
However, I didn't turn back. I finally reached the gates with the peaceful statue looking over the horizon, quite proud of myself, when a voice spoke.
"Oi, little boy!"
I turned around almost instantly, my heart already pounding with excitement. There he was, the Doctor, in his old-fashioned clothes, wearing his sad smile, lost among the forest of stony graves. I smiled back at him. He frowned, as if wanting to say more, but didn't quite find his words. Eventually he just waved, but his thankful eyes told me a lot more than if he had spoken at all. I waved back, happy to know that this strange man had taken the time to say goodbye to me, and pleased that I had helped him, even just a little. He turned back and so did I, and we both went our respective way. That was the first and the last day I ever saw the Doctor.
That doesn't really sadden me, however. This day I remember going to my mother, all excited, telling her how I put the flowers on grandma's tomb. This surprised her, for it was a simple gesture, but to me it was much more than that.
I couldn't help but return to the graveyard and to my surprise the sunflowers were still there, defying the world with their sun-colored petals. It could have been natural, except it was winter, and all flowers were dying of frost and cold, but not them. Their petals, loaded with snow, hadn't lost their colors nor their vigor. I even smelled them and their perfume was still there, deeply hidden by the coldness of the air. I was stunned, and that's when I remembered the Doctor's miracle. Next winter the sunflowers were blooming, and the year after, and the year after that. Ten years have passed and never, never the sunflowers have withered, not even once. I go to the graveyard every year, to check on them, but it's more of a casual visit than a control check. I know the sunflowers will be alright, and I think they will until the end of time, whatever the Doctor did to them. I haven't shown them to anybody else; I didn't feel the need to, and it may be selfish but I kind of consider them as my own, small miracle. Plus, nobody goes into the graveyard that far, and I don't think anybody will ever notice.
I come to water them sometimes, even though I clearly know they don't need it, but the gesture and the sight of the flowers sooth me. I hope the Doctor won't begrudge me for touching his flowers, but I'm sure he doesn't mind, and I have the feeling that he's never going to come back to this graveyard.
One day I dared reading the names on the tombstone; I didn't want to at first, for I felt like peeking into the Doctor's privacy, but in the end my curiosity won. I made research on those people, the one whose names are forever engraved in the stone, but I couldn't find anything. There are so many people that cross the world today, their names are but a drop in an ocean.
Well, whoever they are, whoever they were, I hope they had a wonderful time and were as bright and happy as these sunflowers that still stand, even to this day.