I’ve become used to my wife’s absence. Her work is important to everyone in the village, her artistry with the wildflowers and the water unmatched. When old Miss Macmillan died of the infection, my wife made sure that her sending-off came with honor. The village gathered to wreath her in sweet-smelling blooms before she joined the zombie flock.
We’ve counted fifty winters since the plague began. The first five were the traditional apocalypse of before, people fighting to survive with machine guns and rage. But then, the brightest among us found that the solution to the madness was not survival-of-the-fittest, it was a calm acceptance of the infected and…flowers.
Our scientists found that the zombies were drawn to the scent of inflamed passion. Something about the rage that burned deep within the early survivors was toxic to them, something they sought to destroy. But they were transfixed by flowers, that perfumed sweetness that cloaked the fields and meadows. Our sending-off ceremony was created to keep them docile, the flowers that then grew from their bodies made them gentle.
That sending-off ceremony, that last sign of love from the survivor to the infected, kept them calm.
Our settlement has had many deaths since our new beginning. Some fell to plague, others to common injuries and illnesses that we no longer had the supplies to treat. All were wreathed in flowers.
My wife is our Florist. It is her duty and hers alone to perform the ceremonies, to cull the flocks and supervise the harvesting of flowers. She has been proud of her craft since she was chosen by the last Florist to lead, proud of the way she keeps us safe, keeps me safe.
But I miss my Rose when she is gone, although I know her absence is what protects us.
She writes, when she can, and sends her letters by dove. She speaks of waving grasses under the light of a gentle sun, ivy that slowly breaks down concrete walls of a time before. The hordes are quiet, traveling slowly across the grasslands past the remnants of watchtowers and quarantine centers. The soft white clouds that fill the skies are far more beautiful, she says, than the industrial fumes that filled the air before.
When she returns, the village erupts in celebration. Rosewater cakes are baked in her honor, incense is burned in place of a bonfire, and I dance with her under the moonlight. Her head fits against my shoulder like a lock and key, lavender perfume clinging to her hair. She spends the night in our house, asleep in my arms, together. I tell her that she is named for the sweetest flower of them all.
But with the sun she is gone, and when my Rose isn’t there my world splits in two. Although the sun still shines and the birds sing, the world feels colder when she is gone. I await her letters, singing songs of nature blending with abandoned cityscapes, stone reclaimed and metal entwined in wisteria. City lights crumble to dust, but stars are once again visible in the night sky.
Sometimes I will sit under the old tree beside the walls, feeling its sun-warmed bark press into my back, and I feel her. It’s like she is behind me, the tree’s warmth becomes hers, she whispers tales of the outside world in my ear. And I remember how I fear the plague, fear that she will fall to it and all of our love, all of our flowers will not be enough to keep her safe.
But Rose always returns, always comes through the settlement gate with her eyes shining and petals in her hair. And the village celebrates once again, there is dancing and song and sweet wine poured, a toast to her and to all those she has brought to salvation. Like a bridge over an uneasy river, her presence gives us hope.
Sometimes I will sit under the old tree beside the walls, wondering where she is. What she can see. If she is thinking of me. Because of her, I know the old Latin names of flowers, from a dandelion nodding in the sea of grass to the most beautiful of orchids we reserve for the highest of fallen. Because of her, the smallest petal on the breeze brings a smile to my face.
But even the best of flowers cannot match my Rose, or the feeling of seeing her come home once again.
The City High Review 