The Roses
A thievery of love
I want to write about the roses.
I’ve been longing to write about the roses all week, but I’ve been lost in the upper world.
I think I’m still there.
***
It’s been quite a week.
I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say, there was a fright. A fright that held some weight, and there is still weight attached to it, but it is no longer elephant-heavy, maybe just the weight of a small goat.
And alongside the elephant - heavy and urgent - there were several Very Important upper-world tasks demanding of me. You know the sort of grown-up things we must do from time to time: decisions, performing, enduring.
I can’t say much more about that really, other than that it stole me away. It shook me at 3am in the morning and scraped my eyeballs sore. It poked my weary body, screaming malevolent fears into my ears at ridiculous o’clock.
The roses kept me going.
The roses live in the upper world, but they have spirited me away more times than I can count this week.
***
But first, a confession.
I stole the roses.
***
Wait, I need to contextualise this a bit.
The roses belong to a neighbour. A gift, I recall, from her beloved son. I don’t remember when I first saw them this time round, but somehow they lodged themselves deep into the soft folds of my flesh.
Pink and velvety, a crown of glorious petals.
Oh, the roses.
***
My sweet neighbour moved out six weeks ago, to a place where she can receive more care, and the house is for sale.
After a week of late-May sunshine, the wind is back in full force. And we all know what the wind does to the roses.
I guess I am trying to justify my thievery as a rescue mission, although I know that’s a stretch.
I couldn’t bear to see the petals strewn all about the place, prematurely lifted by a swirling, wildish wind and left to rot.
It just didn’t feel right.
So at 5am one morning, I stole out with a sturdy pair of scissors into the milky morning and, snip snip snip, the blades slid through the woody stems. I was careful not to prick myself on their thorns, careful not to take too many or upset the garden sprites.
Once I had snuck back inside I laid my booty out on the work top. In amongst the tender buds, I discovered a cluster of baby snails, which I gently prized free from the stems. I returned them to my neighbour’s garden as if it were an act of retribution.
***
Do you judge me for stealing the roses?
***
Can I say this, too, in my defence?
I have loved those roses. I am loving them still, even though they wilt at the edges. Every inch of my beating heart melts at a glance.
I even bought a new vase. A pink one, a vase fit for such delicate beauty.
***
In the wildness of a storm that had me shaken up this week, the roses have been a soft bed for me to rest my tenderness.
There’s more to that story, but I won’t go there.
***
I couldn’t bear to see the petals strewn beneath the vase. At the suggestion of a dear friend, I pressed them between tissues in a book and piled on heavy things.
Something in that small act felt deeply reassuring in the tumult of a wild week. The flowers will wilt, the petals will fall and life will carry on.
In two weeks, I will release the petals from their clamp. I will buy a small bag, maybe velvety soft … a nest for the petals … artefacts from a brief spell of fear and beauty.
Nothing lasts for long.
