Painting: The Three Ages of Woman

1905 by Gustav Klimt

Oil on canvas

This piece moved me greatly, and inspired me to write a story based on what I see in the painting. Hope you enjoy.

The Little Flower

She looks for love in everything she can, and wonders if it’s normal to feel the emptiness of her husband’s “I love you’s.” Those three words are turned and twisted in the depth of her stomach each time he says them, until they are dissipated to nothing substantial, because she knows. She knows he showers her with them because he feels the need to remind her that he loves her, after he was caught with another woman. Maybe he does love her, but she doesn’t feel it. Maybe she doesn’t want to.

She’s having a baby. His baby.

While he hopes for a strapping young boy, she prays desperately for a girl. She prays everyday for a little flower that will blossom into a beauty of her own design, with each fingertip delicate like a petal, but with a grip like that of a thorn. She would teach her daughter to grow only for herself, and to never sacrifice her sunlight to keep others warm, because some things are not meant to be saved, and she doesn’t need to become one of those things. She prays for a girl who will be able to hold onto the things she loves that love her back, and let go when they no longer serve her needs— something her mother was never able to do.

She’s having a girl.

Her little flower will need roots that are strong, firm, and not easily swayed. She won’t blow in the wind of insincerity, or be uprooted without her consent. Her mind will be sharp enough to intimidate those that are ignorant of the strength of a woman. She will be strong enough to withstand everything others will say about her, as she realizes conversations don’t need to include her to be about her. She will learn to wait for someone who drowns themselves in her essence, who admires her enough everyday to make themselves feel full, and never be hungry for more than her.

She has a miscarriage at 19 weeks.

Doctors say it was later in the pregnancy, but it happens.

It’s not her fault, but for the rest of her life she will believe that her body is poisonous— a toxic wasteland to those who come close enough. There will be no one else like her baby girl, who wilted before she had a chance to grow. She wonders if her body will remember what it felt like to be occupied with love. She doesn’t understand, and she doesn’t think she ever will. She sensed her baby’s life spreading through every inch of her, inhabiting the deepest parts of her. She felt her touch from the inside out, and now she feels nothing. Her flower lived in more than just the womb, and she wonders if she will learn to cope with the loss.

She doesn’t.

She grows old, and begins to forget where she places her keys. Her vision isn’t the greatest by any means; sometimes she even loses sight of herself in her own loneliness. She has a garden she tends to, with flowers of all kinds that started as small sprouts. She pours her care into every patch of empty dirt, and packs her soul into each flower bud, to ensure that they have enough life in them to make it through the season. Her withered hands work to recycle the beauty that she’s lost in herself back into the earth, so that it doesn’t go to waste.

It’s just a matter of time now until she sees her baby girl again.