With a Yellow Flower.

She loved Yellow.

Always used to see her in yellow. Or with it.

Even tried to talk me into painting the whole damn house yellow.

That was the kind of woman she was.

All I have now are my memories.

I'll always remember Christmas. Every single one.

They were all special.

There was the incident with the turkey. Poor mutt had eyes bigger than his stomach. We had chinese food that night.

Then there was the time we went out for a tree... in the forest. I, as usual got lost. By the time I got back to the car, she was crying her eyes out... We got one from the outer layer, an old looking one. It looked pretty in the light of the fire.

Then there was last year... She was sick. Thought it was just the Flu. Made her chicken soup, said "It's not Turkey but... Close enough.". She laughed.

She didn't get better. Cancer. Even the name sounds like a monster. And you can't even count on genetics.

She had good and bad days. The good days were... good. She was just like she used to be. Picking flowers from the forest everyday. The whole house used to smell of them.

She loved to read. I'd usually see her curled up with some kind of book on the couch. Encyclopedias, mysteries, romance, old service manuals - anything she could get her hands on. She enjoyed reading to me. Her voice was that of an angel.

The bad days were... They were hell. She would lie around, doing nothing. It just wasn't her. I used to look after her, keep her company. She used to put a brave face on it all, but I swear... Sometimes I heard her crying.

She refused treatment of any kind. She thought it was the will of God. That's where we differed - I could never believe in something I cannot see. Her faith was enormous, like her heart. We used to joke about it, and even argue about it. But we never meant any of it.

It was love.

I got back from town one day...

She was lying on the couch...

She was cold.

...

She will stay cold. I cannot live without her. And yet I still exist.

My eyes are dim. My hands hard from crafting our home. I can't remember the last time I had a haircut. I'm numb... Numb from the cold. The touch of winter that keeps her with me.

I still keep a bunch of flowers in the house, though the smell is dull now, in the darkness and the moss.

And I always place one upon her grave. A single yellow flower.

All I have are my memories... But I'm not alone.

She's still here...

Still cold...