His Weed

It was a balmy night, the soldiers had come home, the war fought for the geezers by the young, the beautiful, was done.There would be strife, and famine, endless queues where bloodshot eyes would beg for just a chunk of bread, or fatback from the front, last minute rations pried from farms to give an extra boost to troops whose age could be determined on the fingers of two hands. He'd thought about it ever since he carried home the shame, of cowardice while facing death, four bullets had been saved inside his Walther, they would do. He'd find a lonely spot deep in the forest where he'd played while young and it felt right to end it all among sweet memories. He checked his weapon then and felt the changed terrain, his foot had stepped on moss, it felt like home, he stopped to see. There were a hundred flowers, they occupied a meadows fringe, well shielded from the winds by weeds. He feasted tired eyes and bent to touch. They were just flowers, they would be and stay after he'd done the ugly deed. He caught a sudden move, it was a weed, strange, out of place amidst the crowned, but it was full of life, of quiet class though nothing special could be seen by human eyes, it was a weed. He sat, for reasons other than are known, until the morning sun demanded that he sneeze. He could not leave the pretty weed, where it had grown and there were sparkles from the dew drops in the breeze.