The Last Breath of Spring
by Abbi Adams
It was the lilacs that bloomed first—
shy and purple in the hush of April,
when the earth begins its soft thaw,
and your breath began to slow.
The clock held its hands at 4:44.
Dawn not yet risen, but stirring—
buds of dogwood pressed shut
in reverent silence, like we were.
Outside, the dew clung to clover
and azaleas bowed in the dark.
Inside, we held your hand,
watched the tide pull further out.
The medicine was mercy,
though it felt like a sin.
We whispered prayers
we didn’t know we knew.
You rattled like wind through pine.
And then—nothing.
The silence of jonquils in shadow.
The stillness of a porch swing at rest.
They came with the hearse.
No hoofbeats, just wheels,
a white sheet veiling
what was once the warmth of spring.
We stood, back bowed like tulips
after rain. You, the gardener of this season,
were carried from the garden
before morning could bloom.
And all the world held its breath—
even the robins, even the sky—
As April stood still,
and spring, your beloved, wept.