“What
should I call you?” Goldenrod asked the magnolia as he tucked it into bed
beside him that first night. “I don’t suppose you have a name, and as beautiful
a word as it is, I don’t feel right calling you only ‘magnolia.’ I suppose you
don’t mind if I name you myself? I would like to call you Summer, for you are
as bright and radiant as the summer sun, even in your poor condition. And I
would like to be reminded of this beautiful summer that brought us together.
Would you like to be called Summer?”
The magnolia did not protest, so
Summer she was named. Every morning, Goldenrod kissed her and said, “Good
morning, Summer, darling!” Then his mother would do the same for him and his
brothers and sisters.
Summer would stay by his side for
the entirety of the day; sometimes, he would take her high up into the tree and
find a private branch for the two of them to sit on and enjoy eachother’s
company. Sometimes he took her down to the ground to visit his friend the
spider. He would dance with her, holding her up high and swaying her back and
forth in the sunlight—his mother had told him that blossoms needed sunlight to
thrive. At night, he would tuck her into bed, kiss her goodnight, and rest his
head on her petals.
Goldenrod’s brothers and sisters
told their friends that Goldenrod was courting a magnolia blossom. Goldenrod
had never thought of himself as courting Summer until then, but he found that
he liked the idea immensely. “Finally,” he told her, “I’ve found somebody to
court, and she is the loveliest girl I ever could have found! Summer, we’re
lovers now. I love you devotedly, dear Summer!”
Goldenrod completely forgot about
finding other elves. After all, he thought, no elf girl could ever match
Summer. He kept her close to him throughout the rest of that glorious July, and
when August came, Goldenrod thought it was time for him to ask for Summer’s
hand in marriage. It would only be a half-year before he would be old enough to
wed, and he wanted to ensure once and for all that Summer would be the only one
for him.
But on that first day of August,
when Goldenrod had made up his mind to ask for Summer’s hand, he woke to a
horrible sight: Summer’s petals, which were once milk white, had tarnished to
an ugly dingy brown. Instead of forming five lively points, they were curled
and shriveled. She had grown pale and dry, and her once yellow center was
beginning to blacken. Goldenrod shrieked, which woke everyone else in the nest
that had still been asleep.
“Summer’s dying!” Goldenrod cried.
Then he let out an ear-splitting wail, which his family was sure could be heard
throughout the entire tree and the next tree over. They all embraced him and
kissed him and patted him and told him gentle-sounding things that held no
meaning to him. His mother gently stroked one of Summer’s petals. “Summer has
lived so much longer than I expected her to,” she said. “Why, any other blossom
would have died in only a week, or perhaps even a few days. She’s surprised me
by living for four weeks.”
“She’s surprised me too,” said one
of his brothers. “Goldenrod must’ve taken very good care of her.” The others
nodded and murmured in agreement, and said things like, “You ought to be very
proud, Goldenrod,” and “You’re a real hero for that poor little blossom!”
But Goldenrod only sobbed and cried,
“She can’t die yet! I am going to
marry her! I was going to ask for her hand in marriage today…oh, she really
mustn’t die! She mustn’t!” And though
he really knew it was hopeless, he cradled Summer gently in his arms and said,
“Summer, my darling, I love you, and I would like to marry you when we are old
enough to wed. You simply cannot die right now! You…must…live…so we…can
be…together!
Goldenrod held the blossom to his
chest and fell into his mother’s arms, sobbing and wailing with ceaseless
intensity.
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