AMONG THE DAHLIAS

It's cold now, even here on the California coastline. It doesn't bother me much; most days, it helps settle my fever. It seems constant these days. Father Herrera had a doctor examine me in the infirmary to determine whether it was indeed Bovine Tuberculosis. The doctor confirmed our suspicions, and with it sealed my fate. That was two months ago now before the first winter storms. Father has since prayed over my soul and checks on me daily. He has raised me as his own son, though now I avoid all contact with him. I don't want to spread my illness to him; he's the closest person that I have to family. I am just an orphan at the Mission, after all.

Waves rage against the cliffside, raging a war to take more of the coast. A boy no more than 15 years of age is standing in a field of tall grass and Sea Dahlias. The boy is staring out, toward the ocean as if searching for answers to his many questions. Though his thoughts run wild with freedom and worry, his eyes glaze over. He was sure that if the ocean did not have the answers that he was looking for, then the sky would offer some wisdom. Yet they are of one color now and conspire together in a colorless grey to which even the boy with all his gazing cannot tell them apart. Together, they offer no advice or wisdom, or even an ounce of sympathy. His only solution: stand there and stare them down. Wait until he's broken their resolve and ask his questions once again.

A harsh wind blows, and the boy is forced to cough. He cups his hands to his mouth, and when it's over, they reveal drops of blood running from his fingers to his palms. As the crimson reflects in his eyes, he wipes his hands clean with a stained handkerchief. He puts it away and stares down the horizon once more.

I know I only have a few more days to live. I can barely stand, but the cold gives me renewed spirit, and I'd like to spend my last days here if I can. I've always liked this spot and thought that one day I would have the courage to ask Victoria to marry me, and we would build our home here. I've loved her since the day I first gazed upon her. We've been close friends since before we could speak in sentences. We have shared a few fleeting moments of what can only be described as virtuous affection, moments that could never be spoken of, but never to be taken lightly. I can't remember a time when we weren't together. If there was ever someone who resembled an angel, I'm sure it's her. Looking back, dancing with her at last summer's festival was probably the highlight of my life, but there's more to me being here than just that.

I'm also sad that Father Herrera has to see me go before he does. I know he's hurt; I see it in his eyes when he talks to me. He keeps asking me to give my life to the Lord. I think it's because he wants to meet again in Heaven. It's a nice thought, but if I'm in Heaven, will he know that we will still meet again before that time? In the form of a moment of laughter or a memory of us that sprouts from nowhere, then suddenly overtakes him. Will he know that his love is added by one in the Heaven that he preaches of? The truth is, I'm scared, but not of death, only of what it brings. Sadness from those who were kind to me and those I was kind to.

The thick winter air creeps into his nose and demands that he cough still more. He has no intent of getting his hands bloodied again, so he reaches for his handkerchief this time, but his hand dislodges a pocket watch, and it spills out onto the soil. For the first time since he set foot on the cliff, he's taken his eyes off the dull horizon. His melancholy is now replaced by absolute curiosity. He pauses a moment, now realizing that Sea Dahlias are surrounding him from all sides, stretching outward toward him as if trying to console him. Their yellow has never shown more brilliantly than now. It's as if their color is meant to give him warmth even in the midst of this bitter air. He picks up the pocket watch and examines it. It was his father's, but he, along with the boy's mother, passed when the boy was new to the world. It was a time when influenza was rampant, and the environment was much harsher. The pocket watch was all that remained of him and was his parting gift to his son.

The boy looks up again, then looks around, then to the horizon once more as if realizing that he was wrong about his view. It wasn't just the ocean and the sky that were conspiring, but Heaven and the earth as well. He settles on the warm soil and continues to look at the sea, the sky, and the clouds that are now illuminated through the grey.

I understand now. They all did their part to get me to see that my parents are here for me in my final days, comforting me just as I would comfort Father Herrera in his. They must be watching me from the Heaven that Father is always talking about. I don't have much time left, so I'm sure if I ask him, Father would bury me here. It's only fitting that the place where I wanted to start my family is now the place where I embrace them.

The rest of the night, the boy sat at the end of the cliff; in the distance, the Mission glowed from the candlelight. Father looked out at the boy, only looking away when a dove perched on a nearby tree. The dove too looked at the cliff. The dove didn't move until the boy had long passed. Only then did the dove fly away.