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A Sunflower Lost in 1890

{Translators Note: An early work of Zhang Yueran, this is actually a fairy tale made up of a sequence of van Gogh paintings, drawn in words rather than in oil paint., and already reveals the high level of writing skills which will be put into more extensive use in her subsequent, larger scale works.}

There was fire in the Dutchmans eyes. Orange pupils. Bursting flames. With my own eyes I saw his pupils swallowing me. I felt my torso vanishing, submerged in his eyes. Thats a waterwell with volcanic temperatures. Apricot coloured well-water filled with suffering, it surrounds me. They say it is called tears. That mans tears. I watched the teardrops. Intrigued, I put out my hand to touch them. Suddenly sparks flew. Apricot coloured water shot into me, to fight for space with blood. A group of angels passed over me. So quickly they stepped over me. They wanted me to say thank you, in my pain. I tumbled down over there, begging them to tell me that mans name.
This was how my youth was set alight

Do you know? I fell in love with the man with fire in his eyes.
They say, that burning flame was me, it was my image. When he looked at me he drew me in his eyes. I am happy with my own look. Like the sun in the western sky I watched during so many evenings. It was the home of my spirit. I believe them, for that man was actually an artist. Oh damn; I am in love with that man.
Once I also loved that hazelnut tree on the front slope, and loved the cloud that made rain on my head in early spring. But it is different this time, for what I love now is a man.
We didnt do anything. He just came here during many evenings with glorious setting suns. Right before me with his colour plate and his unseasonable gloom, with me in his eyes. He sat down; us face to face. He started to draw me. Thats when the sun went down, and some birds fought on the hazelnut tree I once loved. Some pale petals left us in the pond water, splashing a little. But neither of us moved; still face to face like before. I felt I was submerged by the swirl in his eyes.
I glanced at my upside down shadow that I can see from the side of the eye. It made me sad, because it told me I have not yet gone into his eyes. I am in the same place, have not moved an inch. He cannot take me with him. He finished drawing, stood up, the evening breeze with the taste of burning palm floating around us. Yes. Yes. Between us there is the light breeze, the onlooking birds. They said I blushed.
Then he left, he turned his back on me. Pong. I felt all the lights dimming. Because I no longer looked into his eyes. I no longer see waves of apricot coloured water and the burning light. Light and heat cut into the space between me and him, strangling my line of sight. I saw the mocking light of the moon trying to shine on my shadow, out of proportion. I know she wants to remind me I cannot leave. I know. I am fixed here.
The man is gone, but I am in the same place, and in love. The friend with me reminds me to lift up my head. He is firm about my staring at the dawning eastern side. Head held high, with sheets of smile. That was my designated appearance. I look around me. This is my home, my fixed home. Fixed like in a lump of amber. Dazzlingly pretty, but completely fixed, sealed in. I suffocate in the tight space. I look aside at my sister and my friends. They do not understand that their shadows look funny, that they cannot jump, or even walk and squat.
They are only stalks of sunflowers. They have the head and body of a plant, every day worshiping the sun.
But so am I; just a sunflower.
But do you know I am in love with a man?
A sunflowers love, will it be deformed like her shadow?

I really want to pull myself out, many times. Though I know my own feet, covered in soil, must be so ugly. But I want to jump, to follow the steps of that man moving away. I wish he had seen me, stopped, us face to face, in the bright heat, with nothing to block our sight. Our line of sight is a straightline rainbow, with happiness making a long ribbon in the uppermost part of red. Then I could tell him, I have feet, take me with you.
Once there was this story, there was a beautiful fish in the sea; she had a yellow head like me, and a fan-like tail. No feet, just like me. She had the same misfortune to fall in love with a man. So she found a witch, and asked for two feet, which the witch gave her, but took away her voice. She was very upset; she says she wanted to sing for the man. But never mind, now she has feet. She danced many times with the man. But that mans eyes were already roaming somewhere else. She could not build a rainbow between the two of them. She found feet but not a path strewed with light to walk on. The fish was upset.
After that?
I dont know. I wish I knew, what happened to the fish. That mans roaming eyes; did they turn back? Could the two feet find the rainbow and run happily afterwards?
That was a story my sister used to tell me. Just an outline, and cut short. Then she would turn around to flirt with passing butterflies. She often hears this kind of stories from friends who are able to move about. Incomplete, but new and different, she spreads the stories like butterflies pass around pollen, so happily. Yes when she told that story about that fish she was happy; she says the fish must still be feeling sad on the shore.
But I asked my sister: you know how I can find that witch?

My home is next to the hillside, where scattered graves lay. And a quaint little house, covered by wine-red ivy. When the wind blows, the house is like a strong beating heart taken out of the chest. I often see that woman in the black dress going inside. Her eyes are dark lined, red veins like lamp filaments covering her pupils, her only adornment.
That day was a green morning. Dew drops fell on my hair, then down into a shivering oval twirl. They are together. I see their simple life, the togetherness that is often, quietly united. I often see other objects move around and come together. Should I not be made content?
I raised my head. This time the sun feels very far. The day is always longer than the sermon of the clergyman down the hillside.
Someone dies. The casket is moved up the hill. I see the chilly flower wreaths. Dead people need offerings of flowers. I want to know, that they could only sleep among the pains of the flowers?
The flower was cut down. Thin green blood flows out of the limp stem. The human holds the flower in hand; the flower feels pain. She could not lie down like she wishes. Her blood stuck to the persons fingers, even clearer than the tears flowing out of his empty sockets. I often thought, would I want the same kind of death. Standing, looking, abstractly drained of all blood. The flowers first trip away from the same place, to witness a death, and to die itself. In someone elses death all is calm and quiet. The flower as the full stop of a life.
The flowers, dying standing up, cannot but have to listen to the talk and talk of the black robed man. I turned my head, no longer looking at the dying flower. Then I suddenly saw on the hillside, that woman with eyes adorned with the blood red filaments. She also wore black, but had nothing to do with that funeral. I and she were all in a moment next to each other; I could almost hear her breathing. And a whiff of wind tangled by death, by weeping, tangled with the dead without means of escaping.
She saw me, and knew I could see her. Shes far from me, but I felt sure she could see I am a different kind of sunflower. My agitation, my worry. A sunflower over a burning flame, wrapped in desire. I see the sufferings of other flowers when they die, but I still cant help wanting to pull myself out of the earth, to leave, to run, to pursue.
She came towards me; stood before me, her gaze at me full of pity. She said she knew my thoughts. She's a prescient witch, and she wants to help me. Her voice was also quickly tangled with the wind and permeates the whole of space. I feel the world around me spinning. She says she wants my wish to be granted, and I at once thought about being able to run, running like a human, panting hard like a human, being with him like a woman. I saw this woman's thin arm stretching towards me, just touching me, saying "you are a pretty sunflower".
My eyes were fixed on her finger. The thin wrinkles cut up its wholeness, making it look like a mesh. Holed and soft. The dried out fingers made me to change my earlier estimate of her age. She must have lived many long years, but so focused, forgetting the need to age and to depart.
She says I can turn you into a person. You will be able to walk, to hop, to follow your loved one.
Her words float in the creeping breezes, at once shaping into a cloud that I longed to hug. I slowly said, tell me, what you want from me in exchange. I knew everything had a price, but I dont know what I can do for you; I am just a simple sunflower.
Then I thought of the fish that wanted to leave the ocean. She had a lovely voice. Her voice was taken in the barter, so she had legs. Legs that could ache, but she spun 16 turns on the shiny glass floor, dancing like a swan with bright feathers and a pale face. I do not know how she ended up, but I envy her all the same. She had something to use in exchange. She was in debt to no one. My voice could only be heard by butterflies, insects, and the divine gifted woman before me. A small, negligible voice, not usable for barter.
Her thin arm stretched to me again, touching me so lightly. She says I want your body; I want the form you have as a pretty sunflower. I was frightened. but I was also in love with a man. I had no choice. So I asked her, how you want to have my body and what for. She says, when the time comes, you will be a sunflower again, and be back here. I will take you to someone's wake. She points to the direction where the funeral was. She says, that's all, you will be held in my hand like her, to die.
So I too will be the terminal punctuation of a person's life? Lying inside someone's decorated coffin, falling asleep during the black-dressed man's chanting prayer? I looked at the dying flower down the slope. She's already dead. She lay in a corner of the casket, head down. Her blood had turned brown, no longer translucent. The dazzling spring that belonged to her once, had been remembered and sung, so simply and hastily. She could leave in peace.
Even when I die I do not want to leave my love. I do not want to tie my death to the death of a stranger. I do not want to shed the last drop of blood belonging to me in a corner of that dumb wooden box, as the lid was slowly closed. But that indescribable obsession of mine for the man and the pursuit. It's like that flower covered cliff of mine. I want to jump, nothing to be afraid of. Because it is a place filled with echoes. I will hear many many sounds that are continuations of my life. I will have my two feet. I will follow him. I had no fear.
I asked, who will the dead person be.
She says, a man I love.
Ah, she says the man she loves. I look at this woman wrapped in black. Her heavy growth of sorrow surpasses any luxuriant plant you might find. I was no longer frightened. She is an anxious woman; I am an anxious sunflower. In this morning we stood together. As she spoke, her eyes had a despair like shattered glass. The glow of a clear morning shone on the shattered glass, a despair that scatters light. I wanted to be close to her, because I thought her rays of despair could warm me. I thought if I could, I would like to stretch out my hand and touch her. We ought to share what we have in common.
I said fine. I am willing to die and be your funeral offering, but..but.. why do you choose me? You are human; you have movable hands and legs; you are entirely free to pick any flower, one that you like, one that your lover likes, put it on his grave. You dont need to ask for the flower's agreement.
She said, I want a willing flower. Let her see people sing to my love at his funeral; let her attentively listen to the clergyman citing his eulogy. Let her, with others, at the moment when my love's coffin closes, shed tears.
The breeze and the clouds seem to turn more sentimental. I began to like this woman. Surely her man did not love her either. But she strives, to do something for him, not giving up, even to the day of his death.
I said fine, I will be the willing sunflower at your lover's funeral, sing and pray for him. But do tell me, for how long will I enjoy my two legs.
The mournful woman says, not sure. You will live till my lover dies. He can die any time, then you stop being a girl. Turn back into a sunflower. I will break your stem, and take you to his funeral. That's that.
She was talking as if my fate was already in the past. She was making arrangements for my death. Her offer to me was a poor bargain. But I observed this woman with her unsurpassed anxiety: she was consumed by her love. In the end I will excuse her excessive demand. I can think of nothing more satisfying than agreeing to her plans. I get to grow a pair of legs, and could follow that dutchman. In the burning flames of his eyes I will diffuse into a whiff of light fume, circling in his company. After I die I will be a sunflower with incomparable sympathy, giving comfort to strangers in a grand requiem. Both I and this woman, with the same affliction as mine, will both enjoy solace and happiness. Isnt this a good thing.
So be it; I exchange my life to have the appearance of a woman. I said fine. I did not even enquire what type of woman I will be. Fat? Aging?
That moment on her drizzle-season damp face I saw the shadow of spring.
She said, then you will be going to see your beau, yes?
I said, not to see, just to follow. The witch said to me: I will send you to his side. But to him you are only a stranger; you understand?
I said no. He drew me every day. His only had eyes for me. I am rooted to his retina. Even after I turn human, he would remember me.
The witched gazed at me. I knew she was pitying me. I was ridiculous, so sure of myself.
It was completely dark then. Our conversation was to end. She came closer again, her smell was dark like her clothes. I was intrigued by the smell of darkness. In my own world, why would there be the colour black at all. I am used to bright yellow, the smell that was reborn and crosses the sky every morning, the smell of explosiveness. I consider yellow to be a macho smell, with a kind of shallow hostility and contempt. The smell of red is what I often drop into in the evenings. Every sunflower loves the sun, but the part I love was the evening one. I look on that red head twined in white, fibrous hair. She is so different from the others. Suspending herself on the western horizon, making a scarlet scene.
Of course, the red could flame my unnamed want, mainly because of that dutchman.
I am in love with that dutchman, as you already know. He's a redhead, having the red and bright fragrance. Some hard-to-see freckles marked his face, like cornflower seeds I once saw, but having the exuberant spirit of ladybugs. His eyes are lit with fire, refracting an enveloping and corrosive light of ruby. I know that would be softer and warmer than soil.
This ruby red will make me really bloom like a plant in spring.
This woman here is black. I have no words of praise for her because I do not know the colour black. The colour black charges at me with taste of the unripened. I have no words of praise for her and her black colour, but I like them.
Her colour black is like a fine coffin. No one wants to be near it, but who could reject it? People curse and flee, but cant help keeping it nearby; it waits in a dark corner.
Then the woman says, you are really a pretty sunflower.
She says, you know another name for sunflowers? heliolotus; such a nice name.
I said, I only only want to know, that guy's name.

The man's name is Vincent. I could not read, but later I saw he sign his name at the side of his picture. I saw he drew me. The shape of the lovely sunflower I once was. I saw the name he signed nudging next to my picture. Vincent is together with me. I see that my stems and leaves were almost touching those nice letters. I wanted to touch them. My Vincent. My van Gogh.
It was a clear morning when I turned into a woman. Everyone was asleep. No one was having a nightmare. All quiet. I was pulled out by the root. The witch held my neck. Her fingers were like the icicles that I used to fear in winter.
I said it did not hurt. I was in love with a man. That man's eyes had fire. He was going to give me warmth. I dared not look down. My feet must be so ugly. They had bones like reptiles'.
I was worried that I had to take them running. I was worried I would fall, and lose sight of my Vincent. A crowd of angels stepped over me, but no one told me his whereabouts.
I was cold. The morning was too young to see the sun. My family was sleeping so I must not cry out loud.
The soil on my feet fell off bit by bit. It was the castle in which I used to live. But it was not warm like that man's heart. Now I am leaving the soil. I go to live in his heart.
All those who love me, why do you need to weep? I am only changing my place of residence.

I came to St Remy. Shining sunlight and flowing river allowed me to see my new shape. The balanced shape of a woman. I went uphill along the path. There are many trees, few people. I see on the slope, outside the main door, some sick people. They were looking out to the distance, in their old and new ill-health.
I walked slowly. I was not used to my two feet. They were so unfamiliar. Like two frightened hares, starting and stopping while hugging the ground. But they are so white. I now have white, not muddy, feet. I was feeling tense. Passing through the main door, I see people around. I wanted to ask them, am I a goodlooking girl? I have seen few women. I do not know which way of combing hair is supposed to be fashionable. Before I went there, the witch in the black dress combed my hair, tidied my clothes. She said she had no socks, sorry.
Mirrors are objects similar to eyes and pond water, right?
I wanted to ask them, am I a pretty girl? Because once I was a pretty sunflower. I was once on Vincent's canvas, a pretty streak of orange mist. That's how Vincent likes it.
I wore a dress. White. The colour of the dandelions on the slope. Just a touch of blue. Look at it too long you feel cold. Maybe I have been looking at the sun too long. My white dress has no lace trims. But the collar and the skirt fold were just right. It was the dress of a nurse. I wear a funny little hat now, white and pointy, like a lotus bud. But but, may I have her good look as well. The upper part of my skirt is covered in little wrinkles, because I have been sitting in a carriage for too long. St Remy is an out of way place. Solitude under cloud cover. The anxious looks of the inmates burnt out the grass on the field.
In the form of a woman, in the form of a white uniformed nurse, I went through the main door.
This guy; the man with fire in his eyes. Still flaming, growling. This redhead man with freckles, in the dress of a hospital patient, right in front of me. This man's hand is not holding a paintbrush; raised, like a stunted branch, dried out, down this thick cloud sealed slope; would he never paint again?
The man looks like when he put away his brush for the last time, with his hesitant fearlessness, with his sun-cannot-dry-out depression. But he was no longer whole. He was damaged. I saw his side. I saw his forehead, the freckled cheeks, but his ear was partly missing. I saw a hastily healed wound, trying desperately to hide in his sardonyx coloured hair, only managing to tie itself in ugly twists. The maroon scar displays itself in desperation under the sun. I was once so close to that ear. He was turned sideways, next to me, the colour on his brush same as me, with some of my petals and pollen stuck on. I so much wanted to speak into that ear of his. I so wished that it could hear; that he could hear. I so much wished he could hear me say, take me with you. I have been have been standing here too long. I want to follow you, facing you rather than the sun. Even now I still see clearly the outline of that ear, but it could no longer hear my voice.
I was placed very near to him, with a woman's body I got in an exchange, calling his name. I called him softly, trying to give comfort to that wounded ear at the same time.
He turned his head. He is so agitated. He saw a completely unfamiliar woman. That womans voice calling him was close to entreating. That woman was in a white dress, wearing a hat. It is all as usual.
In the softest possible voice I said, Vincent, time to take your medicine.

It is St Remy. The hyperventilating slope tightly sealed under cloud cover, hospital, door, inmates, lockup, new nurse and Vincent.
There were many nights when I could be on the night shift in the room next to Vincent's. At night, the sky of St Remy is unusually high. The hospital start to feel disturbed. I know how turbulent the bloodflow of the patients are. Their injuries and pains tell them not to stop, the agitation and damage that would not cease. Outside the main door are the well built guards. They are hot tempered and violent, tending to show their bravery by overcoming resistance. I hear their struggles with the patients during the night. I hear the sound of falling. Blood, tears, sense. It is a fighting ground.
I am a little woman. They would not call to go outside. I stood in a corner shivering a little. I fear my guy would be among them.
I could always go to his room. He would be sitting there, hand raised in mid air. A half written letter on the table. He is quite, but looks tense.
I said the nights of St Remy are cold. I sat next to him. He was wearing an oversize linen shirt. I could see the breeze blowing into it, hiding in his bosom. His fingers are still raised. He should straighten his collar. Do something do something Vincent.
I miss so much his look when he drew, the pleasant smell of the paints dispersing above the hillside of my home, dropping on my slightly raised forehead. Then I would get feverish, keep getting feverish, even now. Now I am a woman who stands before him having a fever because of him.
How did his agile fingers dry out in the warm humid air?
Draw something draw something Vincent.
The man did not look at me. He really does not recognize me. He thinks he has not seen me before, thinks he has not put me in his mind. It was because of his injury. Idle minded after his injury. Too idle minded to remember a sunflower. He lived inside his frozen body, exercising its simple option to live.
I wanted him to draw. I went to get his brush. Before I went back, tears came at last. I want to thank that witch. She made my body whole, even including the ability to have me cry. Tears are beautiful things, like those that fell from the sky. I miss my hillside, my home on the slope, and the time when I wanted above everything else to follow this man.
I returned to his room. I put the brush into his hand. He held it, but did not move further. My finger touched his finger. For a long time, my finger was left in the same position, together with the hand that had no life. I sat down, quiet like when I was a sunflower. I watched my finger; it was the only thing that kept the nice posture I once had.

Kay.
Who is Kay.
Kay is the woman with the trace of serious smile who constantly remained in his sorrow.
In his memory, Kay was always sitting a little higher than he, in a black dress. Kay shakes her head and said no. Kay always shaking head. She says, no no.
When I saw Kay's photo I thought of the moon. Sunflowers dont usually like moonlight much. The sun and dense solid light, that's what sunflowers admire. But this does not stop moonlight from being a beautiful sight all the same.
Kay is still a charming woman, with an empty smile like moonlight, a reflected illusion that no one would have the heart to give the lie to.
She kept saying no to Vincent. She turned and left. She did not hear the spilled out emotions of the man she left behind.
A prostitute. Vincent was talking to her. Vincent looked over this easy to understand prostitute, with her pregnant anxiety. He thought her genuine. She was not a reflection like the moonlight; neither sentimental nor romantic, but real. He saw that the sunflowers on the slope wilted or went away. He saw the back of Kay. Saw the thick fog that covered the whole of his world. In the end he felt there was nothing higher than being real. He put his little flame of passion into her palm.
But that palm could not be closed. Helplessly the passion slipped to the ground. Vincent was stunned.
Another painter. Overflowing with talent. He came to Vincent's little apartment. He was full of light. His brilliance allowed Vincent to see his own little apartment all aglow, but he could no longer open his own eyes. He was captivated by the brilliance, could not move, no longer free.
He wanted to work, eat, sleep, in the same place as this great man. He wanted to have that person's rhythm to regulate his own pace. Because he loved that artist's brilliant life. He wanted to hold on to this artist passing through his life. He even repainted their apartment. Yellow. Like I used to be. But the brilliant person was constantly provocative. The bright guy laughed at his life, and showed contempt for his art.
Argument. Fury. Storm. Two men in a fight linked to their arts. How did the brilliant great man lose his benevolently lifted corners of his lips? Murderous weapons, pointing where? hurting who? The brilliant man escapes. The little yellow room dims again. Blood flew. Vincent holding a little piece from his body. They had been torn apart. He was angry, so that part of his body left him.
He was a road junction. Many stepped over him, and he himself goes in separate directions, no longer a whole.

I was too late dear Vincent. Before I came so much had already happened. I now stand before you, but you cannot identify me. You cannot put anything into my hands.
I did everything possible to come before you, to follow you. My dear, I am a breeze that does not die down.
Recover, then I and you can leave St Remy.
Yes I want to take you away. We two can go to that hillside, all right? We dont want to hear any crying. I wont cry again, all right? We can see other sunflowers. I like the hazelnut tree. We can build a home next to it. Leaves falling now? Piling up thick. Piling is good. Vincent, go home with me.
I decided to sneak the guy away. Lift up the breath-choking cloud cover. Let's leave St. Remy.
I think this is the night. I take him away. He likes me. I always use the gentlest voice telling him to take medicine. He would come with me.
This afternoon I am in good mood. I learnt knitting by copying other women. I knit a red sweater for Vincent. Red like maple leaves. Very soft. In the afternoon I was in the hospital hallway knitting the last few stitches. I was humming a tune I just learnt, in a mellow voice; I was more and more like a woman. I felt good. After a little while I went in to see Vincent. He was painting. In good spirits. Smiling too. Reading letters from his brother.
A small boy came by holding his storybook. He was a patient. Pale, good looking patient. I was fond of him, often wondering whether I too could have a child one day. I wanted a little boy like him, handsome. But I would not let him be sick. The boy passed next to me. I have often seen him but never talked to him. Tonight I am leaving so maybe would never see him again. So I talked to him.
He had long eyelashes, and freckles. The more I looked at him, the better looking he seemed.
I asked what he was doing.
He said he came out to read a storybook.
What book. I was curious. That book with the sky-blue cover, he obviously likes very much, holding on tight.
He thought a bit, then gave the book to me to see.
I giggled, a bit embarrassed. I said, I cannot read; could you read it to me.
He said sure. He was an outgoing little boy, different from the clammed up kind of men I liked.
He sat down, sitting on the bench where I was knitting, side by side.
He read me a swan story, then one about solider in heavy tipped boots going to town. Very nice; we two kept laughing.
Then..then.. he said he will read a story he liked most; then he became sad.
The story started. It was actually the story of that fish. That fish determined to move to the ground, getting legs but losing voice. The story was the same as how my sister told me, but I never heard the ending before. Was that fish with aching feet all right on land? So as I heard him speak I became more and more tensed up, more and more shivery. I was in my mind quietly praying for that fish.
But the boy said in a touched voice, later, that mermaid was so unhappy; her lover forgot her. She could not be with him. She returned to the shore. It was morning. She saw the first ray of daylight. She jumped down; turned into a bubble; reflected many rays of sunlight; slowly sank into the deep sea.
After a long while, I finally knew the final fate of that fish.
I was silent. The boy looked up and asked: sister; only a story; why did you cry?

Such an evening. The odd patients of St Remy's asylum were walking about. Now and then there were still arguments and fights. Some relatives and partners come to visit. Cries; sighs.
I and the boy were sitting on a long bench in the hallway with twilight and smell of camilia, he read the story to me from begin to end. I thought of the promise I gave the witch. I thought of the fish falling into ocean. I should be happy I at last knew the ending of the story. I knew, as if I saw. I saw her jumping into the ocean. She can sing again.
I knew, so I should understand. In anything it cannot be everything. Love was once the iron hook cutting into the throat of the fish, so the fish lost her speech, and could not even voice complaints. When she was released from love, she was weary from her struggles. She had no need to complain.
Love was what pulled me up by the roots. I had no root, no need to belong. Now love was about to release me.
The boy asked me not to cry. He went to his dinner. He says his dad would that night bring his favorite salmon, and that night he would bring me some. My dad, he was still on that hillside. When the autumn wind comes, he would surely shiver.
The boy left. Just like I felt would be, suddenly, the witch came. She stood in front of me. She had not changed at all. Her lamp filament eyes were bright.
She says her lover is dying. She did not say more. We had an understanding. She was sure I remember my promise. I will return with her. Like that fish returning to the ocean.
I said, let me say goodbye to my lover.
She followed me into Vincent's room.
Vincent lay on his couch asleep. On the canvas was a newly painted woman. Kay? Whore? Me? Who knows - we are all in the past.
I covered him with the newly knit sweater. Red. Is it warmer now my lover?
The witched was staring at the man. She looked over him closely.
Is it because she finds the guy before her weird? Sure. He lost half his ear, the look on his face was confused, even in his peaceful sleep.
The witch had tears as she left.
Farewell Vincent.

The witch and I walked side by side on the hillside of St Remy. I see the asylum over increasing distance. Lover and noise both no more.
I and the witch, two women, finally walking and talking side by side.
I asked, your lover already dead?
She said, I expect he is about to die.
I asked, cant you keep him longer.
She said, my keeping him is my going to his funeral.
Oh yes; sometimes what we need is to keep at the moment death, not to keep for real.
I came again to my hillside. Autumn. Weed and the year's wilting flowers filled my sight.
My home still there? My family still humming in the breeze?
I lacked the courage to go near them.
I meandered around the hillside. I saw a butterfly who was once friends with my sister. He was turning and humming around some other flower.
My sister. How is she.
On the morrow, the witch washed her face clean, changed into a different black dress. She said, today is it. Her loved man died. Today will be the funeral. She says, you will go.
I said, fine. We leave. I will sing the requiem at the top of my voice.
The witch asked me to close my eyes.
Her craft was the mildest hurricane. In a moment I was again a sunflower. She grasped me in her palm; she says, you are still a pretty sunflower.
I felt my body losing water, and it was not as painful as I imagined. I smiled and said thanks.
Her palm was warm. I tried hard to support my heavy head with the body, to go to the funeral with her.
The funeral was different from what I expected. Just some scattered people. Muffled weeping.
The witch walked straight to the casket. She knew nobody, but she looked like the host. The people at the sides move aside to give her an open path. She was a solemn woman. She was tightly grasping a fully bloomed sunflower. I am a solemn sunflower.
The casket was rough. I saw grubs boring holes, the cutting sound of teeth disturbing the rest of the person about to depart.
Finally I was next to the coffin. I could see the face of the dead person.
That, that was a most familiar face.
I could no longer say there is fire in the man's eyes. His eyes are closed forever. Freckles, red hair. torn ear. My Vincent.
The witch whispered into my ear: this man, he was also my great love.
I was surprised, but pleased.
I see my Vincent again; he was wearing new clothes, not wearing the new sweater I knit for him. He must be cold.
But I am happy. I will leave with you. I was your favorite flower. I turned into a woman to see you in St Remy. I knit you a maple-leave-red sweater. All these you do not know, but not to mind. I was a sunflower that you loved. From now I will be with you. We together in this lousy wooden box; we together sink into the ground. It's wonderful.
Our home will always be the hillside
Our coffin is about to be laid into the ground.
I strained my head up to see the sun one more time. I also saw many people.
Many people came to see you off, dear Vincent. I see Kay with her kids. I saw the whore who once hurt you. They were shedding tears for you. And that brilliant painter. He came to be reconciled to you.
And also this witch. She was standing far away, our eyes meeting. We were smiling at each other. She spoke to me in the voice that only I could hear:
Isnt that the pursuit you wanted?
I smile; I said, yes thank you
She also says to me, yes thank you.