Until the Last Bloom
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 1,301
Lena knew something was wrong when Eric stopped reaching for her in the mornings.
For years, she had woken to the comforting ritual of his warmth curling toward her, his arm draping lazily over her waist, his breath soft against her shoulder. Even when he was half-asleep, his touch had been instinctual—an unspoken promise that, no matter what, he was there. But lately, that quiet reassurance had faded.
At first, she convinced herself it was exhaustion. He was getting older. Everyone slowed down eventually. But she couldn’t ignore the other signs. The way he hesitated when buttoning his shirts, his fingers fumbling over the small plastic discs. How he paused before signing his name at the grocery store, his grip uncertain, letters wobbling. The way his hands sometimes shook when he reached for his coffee, as if the effort of holding on had suddenly become too much.
This morning, the change was even starker. He didn’t just move slowly—he didn’t move at all.
He lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he had to concentrate just to keep breathing.
“Lazy morning?” she teased, brushing a hand over his arm, hoping to stir some reaction, some flicker of the man she knew.
It took him a few seconds to respond. He blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere far away. “Guess so.”
The pause was long enough to make her heart clench.
She waited for him to stretch, to yawn, to throw the blankets off with his usual half-hearted grumble about getting old. But he didn’t move. His hands, usually restless in the mornings, remained still on the bedspread, fingers lightly curled.
A chill settled in her stomach.
She forced a smile. “I’ll make coffee.”
Usually, by the time she poured his cup, she would hear his slow, steady footsteps behind her. He’d come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck—one of those soft, lingering kisses that made her forget, for just a moment, the creeping weight of time.
But this morning, the bed stayed full.
And the kitchen stayed quiet.
The doctor said the words gently, but they still landed like a stone in Lena’s chest.
Parkinson’s disease. Progressive.
She barely heard the rest—the explanations, the treatment plans, the slow unraveling of certainty. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in, the air thick with something unspoken.
Eric sat beside her, hands clasped in his lap, nodding like he had already made peace with it. As if this diagnosis was just another thing to endure, another battle to fight quietly. But Lena knew better. She had seen the way he hesitated before lifting his fork, how he’d flex his fingers under the table, frustration flickering across his face when they didn’t move the way he wanted. She had noticed how he no longer drove at night, how he gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly during the day.
He had known. He had known, and he hadn’t told her.
Because saying it out loud made it real.
She spent the rest of the appointment in a daze, nodding at the doctor’s words but barely processing them. By the time they got home, Eric looked exhausted. She should have told him to rest. Instead, she went straight to the kitchen and started cooking.
She made his favorite meal—pot roast, cornbread, sweet tea. The kind of food that had always made everything feel a little more bearable, like something warm and steady to hold onto.
But when she set the plate in front of him, he barely glanced at it.
“You should eat,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.
“I’m not hungry.”
The words came softly, but they might as well have been a slap.
Lena set her fork down with a sharp click against the plate. “Eric.”
He rubbed his temple, already looking exhausted by the conversation. “Lena, please.”
“Please what?”
“Don’t do this.”
She stiffened. “Do what?”
His sigh was deep and slow. “Look at me like I’m disappearing.”
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his eyes, but she wasn’t sure what he wanted her to see.
She swallowed hard. “Aren’t you?”
The silence between them was heavy, stretching across the table, filling every space that used to be easy.
Then, finally, he moved. His hand slid across the table, slow and deliberate, until it rested over hers. His grip was weaker than before—less certainty, less weight—but he still held on.
“We have today,” he said quietly. “That’s enough.”
Lena turned her hand over, curling her fingers around his, squeezing just a little tighter.
As if holding on could keep time from moving forward.
Spring came hesitantly—buds pushing through the soil, cautious and unsure, as if afraid winter might change its mind. The air still carried a lingering chill, but the sunlight lingered a little longer each day, stretching golden fingers across their porch in the evenings.
Eric sat outside most afternoons, wrapped in a blanket despite the warming air. His movements had slowed, and his body betrayed him in small, quiet ways—shaking hands, stiff muscles, the effort it took just to stand. But he still came to the porch, still watched the world unfold around him.
Lena was in the garden, her hands buried in the cool, damp earth. She liked the feel of it, the way it anchored her, made her a part of something bigger. She worked in steady rhythms—dig, plant, press, water—breathing in the scent of fresh soil, new life. Here, in this space, things made sense. Seeds became sprouts, sprouts became blooms. There was no hesitation in nature, no fear of what came next.
Eric’s voice broke the quiet. “You think the flowers will bloom early this year?”
Lena sat back on her heels, wiping dirt on her jeans. “Depends.”
“On what?”
She finally looked at him, really looked. His face was thinner than it had been last spring, the sharp lines of age and illness more pronounced. But his eyes—the same soft blue they had always been—still held that familiar glint of mischief, of knowing her too well.
“On whether you plan on sticking around to see,” she said.
His lips quirked, slow and steady. “You think I’d miss it?”
The way he said it—so casual, so certain—made something inside her tighten. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to pretend that the tremor in his voice, the fatigue in his shoulders, meant nothing. That the seasons would stretch on indefinitely, bringing more springs, more blooms, more nights like this.
That evening, they stayed on the porch, watching the sky burn gold and violet before surrendering to darkness. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy—it was comfortable, lived-in, like an old favorite song played at just the right volume.
Lena reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. His grip was looser than before, the strength fading little by little. But he still held on.
She exhaled. “Do you remember the first time we sat on this porch?”
Eric hummed, thinking. “Yeah. You told me you didn’t think you belonged here.”
Lena smiled, the memory blooming in her mind. “And you told me I’d always belong, no matter what.”
His fingers twitched against hers, a whisper of a touch. “Still true.”
She looked down at their hands, tracing the lines of his palm, feeling the faint, uneven pulse beneath his skin. She knew the day would come when his hands wouldn’t reach for hers at all. When his body would betray him in ways neither of them were ready for.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he was still here.
And tonight, that was enough.
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