Beautiful Tree

Roses are red, love is fake, weddings are basically funerals with cake.

That was my philosophy now that my wife of sixty years had passed.

I watered my favorite Lotus tree for the last time. I was going to die soon. I didn’t have the will to stay alive anymore.

My name is Daniel, but my friends call me Daisy Digger on account of the special care I took of the daisy's, my late wife’s favorite flower.

I took a final walk around the garden, checking on all the plants that were growing.

I had a large enough property that I turned my yard into a public garden. My wife and I were very proud of it. I had enough money to let people in for free, however.

I willed the land to my grandchildren, Lenny and Josh. Once I retired or died, I hoped they would take care of the grounds as well as I have. I always told them that if they can’t afford to maintain it, they could always charge an entrance fee.

Everything seemed to be in order. I replaced the soil one last time. I watered everything one last time. Then I laid down to rest under the shade of my giant tree.

I woke up a little confused and disoriented, then remembered I fell asleep under my Lotus Tree. I grabbed my shovel and started digging a hole.

I dug through the night and slept late the next day before the hole was just the right size.

I made a few phone calls and invited everyone over to have one final party. They didn’t know it was my last party. If I told them, they’d have been sad and the party ruined!

I ordered pizza for everyone and played raucous music. We danced and partied into the night.

The following morning, after I told everyone it was time to go, I lit my house a blaze and burned it to the ground.

“To conflagration,” I said, and took a sip of champagne someone left on a table.

I collected insurance money from two different companies so I’d have a little extra to leave my grand kids once I passed. Because, why the hell not?

They hated that house anyway. They said it smelled of old people and moth balls. They wouldn’t miss it. Maybe they’d miss me though.

I sat down next to my wife’s grave. She was buried in front of my tree.

“I miss you, my darling. You were one of a kind. I miss our talks, our long walks on the beach, and our daily cuddles. The kids barely talk to me anymore. The grand kids visit every other weekend, and half the time they bring their horrible girlfriends or boyfriends. I miss having someone to listen to me whenever I ramble. I miss the sound of your voice. I miss you every day. I’ll see you soon,” I said.

I laid down, rolled into my hole, and buried myself alive.