Wildflowers

He picked up another flower from the trail, his wrinkly left hand holding the rest. It was marvelous seeing how the flowers were decorating the path with pops of color, beginning their brief life, each unique in their own way. 

He still had a long way to get to the top of the hill, but there was no need to rush. He was still going to get there, so why not appreciate the journey? If he had only focused on getting to the hilltop, he wouldn’t have seen the stunning sunrise, spilling across the dark sky, or the little birds singing good morning to each other, flying into the clouds. 

And soon enough, with his limbs aching, he got to his destination. 

The aroma filled his nose, the young summer breeze making its presence known. He sat down on the grass, the blades touching his aged skin. And suddenly, tears filled his eyes as an explosion of feelings crashed into him. He knew he wouldn’t get to see another day. But was that such a bad thing? He had done lots of things in his life. He loved, and he lost. He lived. 

The moments in life only matter because they pass. If you could hold them forever, you wouldn’t see their true beauty. Life is only beautiful because it ends. 

The sky was clearing now, announcing the start of the day. And as he took his last breath, he looked back at his bouquet of wildflowers, once young and in full bloom, now withering away. They had served their purpose. He had served his purpose. 

What better way than dying fulfilled?