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Introduction to Brandlady.com |
A Rose
Carolynne (Lynne) McPherson, Contributing Writer S he received her first rose just after winning the contest. His call that afternoon offered words of congratulations and tentatively asked if she had liked the rose.Her initial words of thanks turned to tones of puzzlement. “What rose?” she asked. She had not received any roses. She recounted what she had found. “Two bunches of carnations and a mixed bunched perched in a pot”. No roses. She asked him to wait while she checked the front door. She reaffirmed her reply. “No roses.” He accepted the answer and slowly the conversation changed to meander through other topics of thought. She forgot about his query until she opened her back door. There, huddled in guilty embarrassment sat her dog. One rose petal perturbed from his mouth. The man’s rose lay on the ground in a heap of paper. Her battle-axed block had confused the deliveryman. She bent to pick up the rose and was immediately repulsed by an unseen putrid smell. The dog had left his calling card. What remained of the rose was ruined. Exactly a year to that day, she married the man. The dog never marked any roses again. A few months after the man could legally perform his manly duties the dog lost his ability to do the same. And what of the rose? It became a symbol between the man and the woman. A symbol of their love for each other. A symbol that needed no explanation or words. Each felt the bond. Her rose would be delivered with love on every special occasion. He never forgot his love for her. The day she went to hospital, he drove the car and left her handbag on the front seat. She rang in frustration. “How am I going to be able to buy lollies from the hospital shop”, she asked. “You have my purse.” When he returned, he apologised, and pulled a rose from behind his back. She smiled. It was the first rose to reside on the mantel above her bed. Chemo was hard. It sapped her energy. The operation had gone well, or so they thought. The one rose became fifteen as she lay beneath them in pain. One rose for one day. When the twentieth rose arrived, the doctors allowed her to go home for the weekend. Much joy. Much love. Much sadness. Her eyes lit in laughter to the antics of a three-year-old grandson who pulled her bandaged arms to him. Ä kiss to make the hurt stop, Tranma”. His voice remembered with longing. Upon return, she played and replayed the visions. A wanting. A need. A plead. “God, let me return.” Her last weekend rose came in a vase to sit beside her bed. She kissed it “Good Night” and asked God for another rose tomorrow. Another day. Before she left that day, she placed the rose on his corner unit next to his bed. Later that evening, when the man saw the rose he took a deep breath and sat stunned at the bed’s edge. He knew what she had done. His love grew warm within his heart as he changed into his pyjamas, kissed the rose, and turned out the light. Week Five became a time of terror. More surgery. More pain. Less hope. The doctors and nurses knew of her love for roses so gave her permission to stick pictures of roses above her bed and on her IV drip. She kept saying, "Another day, another rose”. The strain was evident on them both. The routine of hospitals and home took their toll on the man. An urgent trip to the city for his business interrupted the journey one day. He rang her after the meeting to let her know he was safe and would see her the next day. She wished him well and said a quiet prayer of love to God. The phone placed back on the hook, she waited for the morning light and his face. Another rose, another day. She did not have her rose for that day. The pain started during the night. A mild irritation in her chest. “A touch of heartburn”, she thought. “A discomfort that did not pass.” The morning of her heart attack was crisp. A brilliant autumn red sun touched the white of the balcony edge outside her room. “How long since I sat in the chair and touched the floor boards with my feet?” she mused. Light breeze. Soft perfume from an orange blossom bush… Then, a stop in thought. A different pain. More intense. Local. Her reach of the bell was clumsy but effective. Within an hour, her body was plugged into more machines. It no longer belonged to her. Her room, a ghostly glow of light. Her curtains had been closed. Her balcony was gone. The thorn of his rose pricked his fingers. Blood hit the floor in splatters from torn flesh. He did not notice. Numb. Grief. He had come to give her rose, plus another one for yesterday. “Tried to call, no answer… busy stabilising your wife… ”helping her to breathe…” He wished the buzzing through the fog would stop. He only wanted to hear her. He called her name with a foreigner’s voice. She opened her eyes. He cried. He touched her face. As she smiled, he thanked God. “She still remembers me”, he thought. The frog played with his voice as he spoke. “Here, I bought you two roses today… ‘Cause I missed giving you one yesterday…” He stopped. He could not remember what he was trying to say. She looked and nodded. The eyelids slowly closed and she slept. He held the rose and would not let it go. He watched. He waited. Monitors stopped jumping and eased into a gentle rhythm. One machine removed. Another. Finally her tube. Her lips were cracked, swollen, bleeding. He touched them with cream and smiled a lover’s smile. “She’s been very sick”, the fog said. He couldn’t see or want anything but her. “There will be no recovery. The cancer has spread. Her heart can no longer take the strain. One valve has collapsed. She can’t cope…” He ignored the noise and watched his wife. The rose petals brushed her face as he traced it. A Picasso at work. Painting his love. He spoke softly, caressing the words and working them with a thick tongue. Little lyrics of love. She did not speak. Just smiled. Her reach for the rose met his hand on the stem. He had remembered. This would be the last rose. He knew it and so did she. 
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