Eye of the Beholder (2nd Place)

Contest entry for Fantasic Endings: The prompt:

Mirabelle made her way down the drive to the sidewalk, turned slowly around, and examined her front yard with considerable care. The lawn’s edging was neat and straight. Every stray weed had been plucked and treated with costly weed killer. The perennials were coming up beautifully around her front porch, and the newly planted annuals that flowed along the outer perimeter of her property seemed well watered, healthy and thriving. She smiled to herself, very pleased with the results of what had been the most difficult spring gardening thus far.

Despite her arthritis and despite the breathing problems she tried to ignore, Mirabelle, at 83 years of age, was more than happy with the outcome. She proved, year after year, that she was still capable of creating something lovely. Though she was no longer able to form her once highly praised sculptures, her wrinkled old hands could still create. She could still be productive and useful. She still mattered.

She shuffled a couple feet up the walk, intending to check on a small evergreen bush that betrayed its name with several yellow spots. She bent down to examine the plant, resting a hand in the cool soil for leverage, when an odd noise arose, and she turned her head to see four children pedaling down the sidewalk. Memories invaded reality, as they are wont to do at her age, and she smiled as she pictured herself with her friends driving bicycles down the gravel road where she used to live long ago.

Piercing shrieks followed by howling laughter shook Mirabelle from her reveries. Before she could react, the hard rubber tire of a child’s bike ran over her splayed hand, and then the rear tire followed suit. Though she knew she should be worried about her injured hand, her attention was entirely focused on the damage being done to her yard. One after another, all four children laughed and hollered while they rode their bikes straight up her driveway and then diagonally back through her yard to the sidewalk. Great clumps of grass flew up haphazardly and many promising flowers were trampled while the oblivious juveniles giggled and rode on, disappearing around the corner two houses past.

Mirabelle stood. She woodenly walked toward her modest home’s front door and somehow found herself sitting on one of her yard sale bargain dining chairs. She wondered then why she hadn’t finished today’s laundry. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t even dusted the coffee table or vacuumed the living room. What had she been thinking, playing in the yard when so many tasks remained to be done right here in the house? What, after all, was the point in planting flowers and pulling weeds? She was the only person who ever appreciated the results, and since she was well on her way to losing her sight even she couldn’t really admire the glorious flowers or the shiny green lawn.

My ending:

Mirabelle felt the tiny fluttering of her weak heart beat against her small-framed chest. The pain in her hand blossomed like the vibrant nightshades that grew in the large planter beside her. Tears formed at the corners of the old woman’s wrinkled eyes and she closed them, hoping to block out the throbbing fire that now ran up the length of her arm.

Here I sit worrying about cleaning my house and I'm wasting precious time tending to this garden … why? No one cares, she wept to herself.

Tears spilled down her alabaster cheeks as the juvenile laughter faded into silence.

“You have done so well with your life, Mirabelle. Do not despair, my love. Your life has been like this garden you have nurtured and tended with such loving care.”

The old woman shook her head, hearing the familiar voice of Henry, her late husband. He had passed away years ago, but everyday she spoke to him still. Today, however, was the first time he ever spoke back.

“Henry … oh, how I miss you,” Mirabelle whispered through trembling lips.

“I have always been here for you, Mirabella. I see that this year’s summer white lilies have bloomed early. You always had a gentle hand for such delicateness; they are so much like you,” he replied, his words laced with love and wonder.

His deep baritone voice resonated through her mind. Just then, the kiss of a gentle breeze blew errant strands of white, wispy hair against Mirabelle’s leathery face. She caught the familiar scent of Henry’s Old Spice aftershave trailing through the air. His presence was so close; she could almost sense his tender touch against her skin.

With effort, she swallowed past the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. “The world has changed since you left me, Henry,” she murmured through her tears, refusing to care whether the neighbors saw her talking to herself. A loneliness she had never felt before wrapped around her like a warm embrace.

“But you have not changed. I have watched you everyday and you have grown lovelier than any flower or shrub that you tend with such fastidious care,” answered Henry.

Mirabelle stifled a sob that threatened to escape. It was as if Henry stood right before her and she pressed her eyes tighter, wanting this moment to last forever.

“In time, those kids who caused you this pain will come to know what is important. You have lived your life to the fullest and ...”

Before he could finish, Mirabelle opened her eyes and there stood Henry, just as young and handsome as the first day she had seen him in Gracy’s Soda Shop some sixty years before. With a swollen, shaking hand, she reached out to touch him. She felt his strong fingers grasp her hand and the horrid, flaring pain instantly disappeared. A sigh of contentment slipped out from between her lips.

Henry smiled then, and turned toward the beautifully manicured yard that stood before them. “You have created a landscape of beauty in a world that has much ugliness. People pass by here and stop. Its beauty sweeps them away, and for mere seconds of time, the cruelty of this world disappears by just that glance. You, Mirabelle, have created this for all to see.”

“But I am so tired, Henry,” she murmured back, watching as he turned to face her.

“I know, my love. It is why I am here.”

The lilting music of their favorite waltz suddenly filled Mirabelle’s ears.

“May I have this dance, lovely lady?”

Mirabelle almost cried out loud. The music was their wedding song.

* * *

Erik had stopped riding his bike several hundred yards up the road. He knew his best friend, Peter, had run over old Mrs. Marshall’s hand, and for some strange reason, a horrid feeling of guilt filled him. So he returned to the old hag’s house, watching from the concealment of the corner bushes as Mrs. Marshall danced by herself on the weather-beaten porch. He gasped in fear when he saw her fall into a heap on the old wooden boards. Pumping the pedals of his bike as fast as he could, he raced forward, throwing his bike on the walkway that led up to her porch. With timid steps, he approached the fallen woman.

Mirabelle lay with eyes closed and a small contented smile pasted on her pale face. Erik knew she was dead. She looked just like his grandmother had at the funeral home. The young boy caught the scent of sweet jasmine mixed with his father’s Old Spice aftershave wafting in the air around him. Without knowing why, he turned, snapping off the biggest nightshade flower he had ever seen. He fell to his knees and placed the flower upon the old women’s chest. He could not help but wonder how he and his friends could have been so mean.

Erik then sat down on the first cracked step of Mrs. Marshall’s porch. He looked out at the garden before him and never had he felt such peace … or seen such beauty before.