The Rose

Pink Rose

The rose sat there in the garden, beautiful and surrene, it had been a present to Mum but that seemed like a life time ago now. The cloud reflected sunlight seemed to illume it’s petals, I felt the tears beginning to choke me. I took a step back from the plant.

I looked over the rest of the garden, strangled with weeds and choked with rubbish poured in by local youth, this had once been my sanctuary, as it had been hers but now she was gone and I had not been here. Time had just slipped away from me and Mum was never hot on technology, no skype calls or even ordinary phones for her, I written the odd card and letter but I had not known she could not see to read. I had been off on the other side of the world being important.

I gritted my teeth at the suffering she must have gone through, and I hated myself, every cell of me I would trade for her to have not died on her own in a filthy mess. The neighbours were not the same as those that had lived here when I grew up, they had not known my mother, she was just a strange old lady who waddled to the shops each day. The corner shop had closed and she had had to walked three times the distance to get her food. She hadn’t know where to ask for help.

The police told me she must have slipped and hurt her leg, and then she had starved whilst I sat in restaurants feeding fat clients. The tears tore at me and I slumped to the floor, I should have been here!

‘Mum?’ came the concerned voice of my own daughter, she helped me up, her eyes looked too bright, ‘you couldn’t have know,’ she whispered.

I didn’t respond just once more looked on the desolation of the garden. ‘It was such a pretty garden,’ I whispered.

‘I know mum, me and Phil found a photo album, come on it’s cold out here, we should be going.’ I nodded and turned to go but the rose sat there accusing and lovely. I could not move, it was as if I was transfixed, it began to drizzle, a pathetic insipid rain that was nothing and yet it would penetrate your clothing and cold would seep into your bones, I welcomed it, it suited my mood.

I watched the water collect in little droplets on the rose, tears of the fairies is what we had called them, I ran a finger tip over the petals, the water flicked at me as if the plant were spitting. I sighed, ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered and felt the warm tears run to cooling tracts. Some of them I fancied fell on the rose and I felt as if she were there once again tending her precious garden. My daughter led me to the car and I left it all behind once more. I thought of graves and grave yard visits but there wasn’t much point in that, she was gone and I stared out of the car window.

I didn’t touch the food my son-in-law made me, I just retreated to the bedroom and stared out into the grey thick night and at some point the ache in my heart allowed me to sleep. My mother had been singing, in her garden, the smell of rose petals filled me up with the longing of summer. I groped for my glasses and cut my finger on a thorn, I froze and looked at the bedside cabinate – a single rose sat there, it was I knew a rose form my mothers garden and I knew I would not be able to leave her behind ever again. I was not sure if I was happy or frightened, my feelings had curled up inside me.

I went down for breakfast chiding myself for such silly thoughts, everyone knew I loved roses. But part of me hoped it was her, just so that I could tell her how much I missed her, how much I needed her.

Posted: Thursday, October 4th, 2012 @ 2:27 pm
Categories: Flash Fiction.
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