The flower that never withered

The streets of San Miguel always smelled of warm bread and damp earth after a rain. It was a small town, where everyone knew each other and secrets traveled faster than the wind. Through those streets, a boy of barely twelve years old walked every afternoon, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a wildflower between his fingers. His name was Tomás Aguilar, a slender boy with a deep gaze and a calm gait for his age.

Her destination was always the same: the “Autumn Light” Asylum, an old cream-painted building with large windows and a garden filled with bougainvillea. Not a day went by when she didn’t pass through its rusty gate after school.

He walked in slowly, greeting everyone: Mrs. Lupita, who was knitting on the bench in the entrance; Mr. Raúl, who always asked him for a sweet treat; and the staff, who looked at him tenderly. They knew Tomás wasn’t coming out of obligation, but rather out of a commitment that not everyone understood.

He went up to the second floor, hallway at the back, room 214. There, Doña Clara Villaseñor was waiting for him, an old woman with hair as white as salt and a gaze that was sometimes absent, sometimes full of life.

“Good afternoon, Doña Clara,” he said, placing his backpack on a chair. “Here is your favorite flower.”

“And who are you, darling?” she almost always asked, with a gentle smile.

“Just a friend,” he replied.

Doña Clara had been a literature teacher, an elegant woman with a strong character. But Alzheimer’s had slowly stolen pieces of her memory. For her, the days repeated themselves, and the faces blurred. Even so, when Tomás was there, a spark seemed to ignite in her eyes.

For months, he read her poems by Jaime Sabines and stories by Juan Rulfo. Sometimes he painted her nails peach, other times he carefully combed her hair, braiding it as if she were his granddaughter. She laughed at his jokes, cried silently when something touched her soul, or mistook him for a lover from her youth.

The staff said Tomás had an old soul in a young body. He didn’t go for charity or schoolwork; he went because he wanted to.

“That boy… has a huge heart,” said Nurse Marta, the most senior nurse at the nursing home.

The secret that nobody knew

In all the time he visited her, Tomás never mentioned that he wasn’t just a “friend” to Doña Clara. He was her grandson. The only one.

The story was sad: when Clara began to forget, her only son, Tomás’s father, decided to institutionalize her. At first, he visited her frequently, but then the visits became sporadic… until one day he didn’t return. He said seeing her like that hurt him too much. Tomás, on the other hand, couldn’t imagine leaving her alone.

At home, her father avoided speaking about her. “She’s not the same woman,” he said coldly. “It’s best if she stays there.”

But for Tomás, she was still his grandmother. Even though she didn’t remember his name, even though she sometimes called him “Fernando” or “Julián,” he knew that there, somewhere in her mind, there was still love.

The confession

One winter day, while he was combing her hair by the window, Clara stared at him. Her eyes, for a moment, seemed to recognize him.

“You have my son’s eyes,” he whispered.

Thomas smiled.

—Maybe fate lent them to me.

She lowered her voice, as if telling a secret.

—My son walked away when I started to forget… he said I wasn’t his mother anymore.

Tomás was hurt, but he didn’t contradict her. He squeezed her hand tightly.

—Sometimes, when memory fades, people fade too. But not everyone is forgotten.

She looked at him as if those words gave her peace, and then she was lost in her thoughts again.

Last summer

That year, Clara began to get sick more often. Her good days were few and far between, and sometimes she couldn’t get up. Tomás continued to visit her, even if it was just to read to her while she slept or leave flowers on her table.

One afternoon, the doctor from the nursing home spoke to him.

—Son, your grandmother is very weak. She might not make it through the winter.

Tomás lowered his head, but didn’t cry. He knew that moment would come.

On her last birthday, he arrived with a whole bouquet of wildflowers. The room smelled like the countryside. She looked at him and, with a lucidity she hadn’t shown in months, said:

—Thank you for not forgetting me.

That was the last day they were able to talk.

The goodbye

Clara left one peaceful morning. A wildflower remained on her nightstand, wilted but intact, as if it had clung to the point of not losing its petals until she was gone.

The wake was simple. Only a few people attended: some old colleagues, the nursing home staff… and Tomás. His father appeared at the last minute, serious, without tears.

Nurse Marta, moved, approached Tomás.

—Son, why did you never stop coming?

Tomas looked at her with red eyes.

—Because she was my grandmother. Everyone abandoned her when she got sick. Not me. Even though she didn’t know who I was anymore.

His father, hearing the response, hung his head in shame. He said nothing, but at the end of the funeral, he approached Tomás and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You did what I couldn’t,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Epilogue

The years passed. Tomás grew up, finished college, and became a writer. His first book was titled  “The Flower That Never Wilted ,” dedicated to the memory of Doña Clara.

In the dedication he wrote: “To my grandmother, who taught me that the true family bond does not depend on memory… but on the heart.”

On the cover, an illustration of a wildflower, just like the one she brought to room 214 every afternoon.

And so, although Alzheimer’s erased names and dates, it couldn’t erase the most important thing: the love that remains when everything else goes.