Thirteen Roses
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will
but the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Thomas Moore
It is New Years Day, the first of a new year.
Bright noonday sunshine on freshly fallen snow, a dying fire in the fireplace.
He is alone.
His eyes ire misty as he carefully pulls apart the rose petals and drops them, one by one, gently into the vase.
The roses, brought home after the funeral had graced the dining room table until their glory faded, then laid out to dry in the cool darkness of the unused sauna. The sauna that no one uses anymore; was never used much; always seemed like too much of a waste of time and being hot and sweaty brought an unpleasant remembrance of a farmland childhood long before air conditioning. Anyway, the wood slat bench made a good place to dry flowers. Unmolested, they were now quite dry and almost brittle.
********
No one had noticed, or at least hadn't mentioned it, why there were fourteen roses, not the customary dozen, or why the card simply said "Steve".
Thirteen dried red roses, dark red, almost black, still beautiful even after weeks of drying, now being carefully taken apart, petal by petal and saved for when the snow is gone. He wasn't sure just what he would do with them, but there was no doubt that they would not wind up in the trash. Perhaps he would scatter them at the grave site. Time enough to decide.
I know, I said Thirteen. The 14th he had placed carefully atop the casket before it was lowered, a little custom he started years ago as close friends and family began to pass on. He always sent roses, and always pulled one from the vase and, as a last goodbye, placed it on the casket before leaving the grave site.
Thirteen dried red roses, dark red, almost black, still beautiful even after weeks of drying, now being carefully taken apart, petal by petal and saved for when the snow is gone. He wasn't sure just what he would do with them, but there was no doubt that they would not wind up in the trash. Perhaps he would scatter them at the grave site. Time enough to decide.
I know, I said Thirteen. The 14th he had placed carefully atop the casket before it was lowered, a little custom he started years ago as close friends and family began to pass on. He always sent roses, and always pulled one from the vase and, as a last goodbye, placed it on the casket before leaving the grave site.
But why fourteen, you ask. Well, it started almost as a joke. On the occasion of her birthday just after the completion of their first year of marriage, he had given her a single long stemmed red rose, and told her, "I won't give you a dozen roses, but I will add one each year. If we make it through a dozen years, you shall have your dozen." She had dried and saved the petals for thirteen years and stored them in vases tucked away in the corner cabinet. What use she had planned for them she never said, but the present ones would likewise be placed in that same cabinet, at least for now.
************
Her illness had begun with the start of their fourteenth year, and, after extensive surgery and chemotherapy, she had reached remission status and was only doing maintenance treatments. Tests and scans detected nothing; everything was within normal parameters.
But the lost weight never came back. With its reduced capacity, the abbreviated digestive system never seemed to function properly.
He missed the fourteenth birthday anniversary, being hospitalized himself for a most of the month
She got no roses, no birthday party, no cake.
Nothing.
Not even a card.
He had totally forgotten her birthday.
She never mentioned it.
She got no roses, no birthday party, no cake.
Nothing.
Not even a card.
He had totally forgotten her birthday.
She never mentioned it.
She was there to help bring him home from the hospital, and she continued to function, maybe not 100%, but well enough, and the tests still showed no sign of the cancer. They were grateful for their good luck. Maintenance sessions continued every three weeks, but the much needed weight never returned.
She developed digestive problems of such severity that, upon going to the emergency room at her doctors prompting, one Sunday afternoon, she was immediately admitted and taken directly to surgery for removal of a blockage to the intestine.
It was not a blockage.
Surgery revealed what the tests could not see or tell; an almost total involvement of the unseen and undetected malignancy. The surgeon could only provide relief of the pressure and lessen the discomfort.
A week of hospitalization and a week of hospice and it was over.
He held her hand and sobbed as she left.
She developed digestive problems of such severity that, upon going to the emergency room at her doctors prompting, one Sunday afternoon, she was immediately admitted and taken directly to surgery for removal of a blockage to the intestine.
It was not a blockage.
Surgery revealed what the tests could not see or tell; an almost total involvement of the unseen and undetected malignancy. The surgeon could only provide relief of the pressure and lessen the discomfort.
A week of hospitalization and a week of hospice and it was over.
He held her hand and sobbed as she left.
A dozen+two long stemmed red roses for the casket,
Tennyson's "crossing the Bar" on the little information cards,
and Jay Unger's "Ashokan Farewell", played softly as part of the service.
It wasn't enough, but it was all he could think of.
He drops the last petal into the vase, carrys it gently to the crowded shelf, sets it next to the others.
The shelf is full.
The house is empty and quiet as he walks quietly from room to room and collecting all of the past year's calenders. Most are wall calenders from the various charities to whom she sent a donation.
He collects a dozen or so calendars and carries them to the fireplace, places them gingerly on the glowing coals and watches the flames flare up briefly then slowly die. There is nothing left but ashes atop the glowing coals.
There is a trace of a smile on his face as he brushes away the tear.
Tennyson's "crossing the Bar" on the little information cards,
and Jay Unger's "Ashokan Farewell", played softly as part of the service.
It wasn't enough, but it was all he could think of.
**********
The shelf is full.
The house is empty and quiet as he walks quietly from room to room and collecting all of the past year's calenders. Most are wall calenders from the various charities to whom she sent a donation.
He collects a dozen or so calendars and carries them to the fireplace, places them gingerly on the glowing coals and watches the flames flare up briefly then slowly die. There is nothing left but ashes atop the glowing coals.
There is a trace of a smile on his face as he brushes away the tear.
No comments:
Post a Comment