Hopefully Not Forevermore

    I keep a little rose these days. Friends, family, even people on the street ask after her all the time. I am always happy to show them her picture and share a memory or two with them, but I never tell them the whole truth. I never mention the state she is in now. My little rose, she used to bloom all year for me, used to bathe me in her intoxicating fragrance every time I came near, but these days she remains a bud to me (though her thorns have sharpened considerably).

    I used to keep her in the backyard so only I could bask in her beauty, but she has since preferred a spot by the mailbox in the front. She would rather witness the passing wonders of the world for herself, though I always fear that harm will befall her and bruise her delicate nature, snap her delicate stem, and cause her to wither away. Still, in spite of all the dangers in the world, she remains steadfast, my sturdy little rose. Despite what I have done to her, my resilient little rose holds strong and true.

    Nevertheless, these days she hardly blooms for me.

    I wish I could claim ignorance of her reserved nature toward me. She gladly opens her petals and chats with every passerby: the mailman, the young mothers pushing strollers, the crazy kids, the dog… No, she doesn’t mind sharing her beauty with the homeless or the despairing coyotes on the street, yet she remains a prickly bud in my presence. I have kept her out of decorative pots and containers so she can spread her roots as far as she pleases. I have sprinkled compliments on her figure and grace while I watered her; I have fed her nothing but her favorite fertilizer. I have apologized every day for what I did to her, and I have done everything I can to make her more comfortable. I know she is appeased, content, satisfied, even happy, but she never tells me so. This pampered, spoiled little flower will be the death of me, I swear, but I would have it no other way. Death would be sweeter than living any life without her.

    So I sat down to dinner in the front yard by the mailbox where my little rose resides. We ate and laughed about our days, and I told her of how I loved her more than any flower in the whole wide world. She claimed that I had not seen the prettier, more exotic flowers of the world that have yet to pull me away from her. I stroked her bud without reply. When I pulled my finger away, it was bleeding, but I could see the tips of her faded petals emerging, blushing the loveliest shade of pink I had ever seen.

    I hope that, after many years of gentle touches and soft whispers of love, she will finally fully bloom for me. Ah, but if only I had the green thumb to make that happen.