A Rose Isn't Always a Rose

I like to watch sunrises.  They create a bright beginning to the day.  Before going to my job at the local elementary school, I take a walk to experience the first rays of light.  Fifteen minutes of serenity is useful before spending a day with first graders.  Nevertheless, I enjoy being with the children, they're my outlet to world.  After my mother passed away, I was left with few friends and no relations.  I was an only child and over the years all of my friends had left town.  Teaching was a way to connect with people again.

As I stroll along my block, I can not help but notice the vast rose garden in front of 487 Pembroke Lane.  The house is similar to my own, white side boards and a walk around porch.  My neighborhood is not fancy, just functional.  During late spring a rainbow of color sweeps across the front lawn.  One red rose always falls outside the wrought iron fence.  I’ve walked past it various times while contemplating taking a blossom with me.  I can see myself putting a beautiful blossom in the front room.  I do not have many visitors, but at least the UPS delivery man would see a flash of color within my otherwise whitewash house.  My mother adored flowers and sometimes I want take a few roses to sprinkle on her grave.  Maybe she will be able to feel them, wherever she is.  It would be my thank you for being with me all these years, for loving me.  I never feel that I can do enough for her, even if she is dead.

Yesterday, while a cool breeze was blowing, I stopped to contemplate the rose.  In a careful gesture, I reached forward and let my fingers sweep over the soft petals.  I could feel my mother's presence in the satin color.  I could see her leaning over the roses in our garden, a divine warmth about her.  Red roses falling upon her headstone filled my vision.  I wanted nothing more than to give her the roses, to allow her spirit to experience the delicate blossoms once again.  Without a thought, only the desire to deliver the gorgeous object to my mother, my fingers snapped the rose away from its stem.

The petals were in my hand.  The memories of my mother raced through my mind as I realized what I had done.  As a child, my mother had always explained to me how precious the existence of a single flower was.  When we visited the botanical garden, she would point out the exotic flowers with wonder.  I enjoyed caressing the delicate petals, but I never picked a single bud.  To my mother, flowers were something divine.  I had no wish to decimate the holy blossoms.

Now I was standing silently, realizing I could not give these torn blossoms to my mother.  The dazzling rose seemed to fade in intensity before my eyes.  I was holding a dying piece of life and sign against everything my mother stood for.  I glanced around, unsure of how to react to my own actions.  The iron fence stood between me and the rest of the flowers, guarding them.  With shame pressing down upon my shoulders, I turned away from the scene.

The rose hung limply in my hand as I shuffled onwards.  My mind contained one thought.  What I had done was wrong.  It was not that I had picked the flower; it was that I had ignored my upbringing, my conscience.  I had violated my memory of my mother.

After a few blocks, I spotted a young girl.  After a moment's consideration, I realized she was the daughter of my neighbor across the street.  I had met her when I moved in, but being rather solitary, had not seen her since.  Her curly blonde hair reflected the rising sun, giving her a halo.  Without meaning to, I started towards her.  She stopped playing with her jump rope and eyed me in that cautiously curious way children have.  I stopped a few feet away from her and held out the rose.

Her innocent eyes narrowed at me.  “Who are you?”

“Karen.  I live around here.  Who are you?”

“Lisa.  That’s my house.”  She eyed the rose.  “What is that?”

“A rose.”

“We have those in our garden.”

I tried to smile.  “So do I.  Would you like to keep this one?”

“You don’t want it?”  Her childish pout cut into me.  “It’s so pretty.  I would want to keep it.”

A few minutes ago I would have agreed.  Now, I wanted the vile reminder of my betrayal out of sight as soon as possible.  “It’s very pretty, but I want to share it with someone else.  I think it would like to belong to a pretty little girl like you.”

She stared at me in consideration.  “Okay, but I’m not a little girl.  I just turned eight last week.”

“Think of it as a birthday present.”  I released my grip on the rose, letting it fall into her small hand.  Although the memory was not gone, I felt relieved to give the blossom to someone who appreciated it.  I could not give a plucked blossom to my mother.