The Author's Cafe

[April 19,2007]

The Rose

She held the rose high in her cold fingers, allowing the warm blood to slide down her forearm, in perfect harmony with the one vein that could be seen. The blood seemed to trace its way along this path, as if to show its origins. She looked up and sighed at what she saw. A light. It was very bright, and she wanted to shield her eyes, but she didn't. She didn't feel like she had that much left in her. She sighed again. What a shame. She didn't quite understand all that had happened, or why things had turned out to be so. She was still asking herself these questions when the light had come. Now she could think of nothing else but the light.
She opened her hand and offered the rose to the suddenly velvety soft light. It seemed to hurt a little less. She wondered if this was of consequence, somewhere in the back of her mind, then quickly dismissed it as irrelevant. Now it didn't really matter what happened anyways. All that mattered of course, was the light.
She dismissed also, the blood dripping from her arm, and the knee high water, which had drenched the bottom of her skirt. Her shiny red heels were below, the laces undone and flowing softly in the current. The air spun her hair in intricate patterns about her. She wondered briefly if there should be wind in such a place. She decided it was okay.
She began to move slowly forward. She danced with the water as it parted before her, allowing her progress forward. The blood rippled into the water and became lost in the current. She made no attempt to hide her wound. The rose. She still held it aloft, now wondering why the light hadn't accepted it, now not caring. She could smell each individual pedal and she knew the truth of it. She understood that each pedal held it's own beauty. She understood now why it meant so much. She tried to laugh and felt that she couldn't muster the sound. She couldn't bring herself to break the silence with her voice. The irony struck her as almost painful. Why the thorns? What purpose did they serve? Why must beauty be guarded by pain? Why must all that is beauty be gripped by the thorn? She didn't let go. She felt that the pedals held her consciousness. It was her reality now.
She became entranced, forgetting the cool water flowing around her. She could see nothing but the rose. The light held little meaning. She strove for acceptance. But%u2026 The rose didn't hurt. She bled, and yet felt no pain. Why was this so? She felt that she had begun to identify with the rose. It guarded its beauty closely. What had she done? She'd hidden the beauty inside. She lowered her hand. The rose flowed from her grasp, and fell as if time had slowed. It split the water's surface in two. As it entered, the current stopped. The storm was over. The water no longer seemed to pass by. It accepted her presence and seemed to want to hold on longer.
She couldn't bring herself yet to total comprehension. She didn't know what this feeling was. There was still one more thing left to do. She raised her head, and looked up. She saw what was there all along. She looked back to her palm and found there was no wound, only the almost forgotten memory, the reminisce of a scar. The blood no longer collided with the water below. Instead, it had been replaced by tears. She had found the truth. She had found happiness. She had found love.

The End