One White Rose

  She was dead. She was gone.

  It was in a car accident. He must have been in some kind of coma, because all he could remember was that he left the hospital alone. She was dead. And was she buried?

  Yes, their daughter Lizzy must have taken care of those things while he was in the hospital. Poor Lizzy. She was so close to her mother. He would have to go and see her. Apologize, maybe, and make things right between them again. They were all they had. What was left of the family.

  He stepped through the automatic doors, still dressed in the green hospital gown. But he had no other clothes and no one was interested in helping him. The woman that walked through the doors beside him ignored him completely, her attention focused on the pretty baby in her arms. Lizzy once looked like that.

  The sky outside was a cloudy grey, no wind touched his wrinkled cheeks or brushed his few strands of white hair. Traffic was busy. But Lizzy was close, he could walk there.

  He heard singing. Soft, angelic voices crying to the heavens, soaring past the cathedral steeples just one block down. She always loved singing. She played the piano and sang nearly every day, each song growing more beautiful and softer as the years went by.

  He felt tears come to his eyes but he dashed them away.

  “Hey dad!” A male voice called from behind him.

  Confused, he turned and saw a young man leaning against the hospital, arms folded and legs crossed. “Harold?”

  The young man threw back his head and laughed. He shrugged himself off the wall, “Of course, dad.”

  He looked at Harold dubiously, “You’re dead.”

  Harold looked down at himself – he was wearing a light blue T-shirt, jeans, and brown boots – and chuckled, “Sure. Whatever.”

  “You’re not dead?”

  Harold laughed again and ran a hand through his light brown hair, “Do I look dead?”

  “No,” He admitted, “Not really.”

  Harold walked over to his father and stood next to him. They both looked at the park.

  “Your mother is dead.” He murmured.

  “Is she really?” Harold asked, amused.

  He shot a look at his son, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Me, dad? Nothing’s wrong with me.”

  He grumbled and turned away from Harold. “I want to go to the park, to clear my mind a little,” and he stormed ahead. After a little while he glanced back and saw Harold wandering behind him, hands in pockets and whistling.

  Just looking at his son her face came back to his mind. Oh God! The tears were coming again. Could any creature look lovelier then how she looked?



  She was singing sweetly at the piano. Her short white hair – glowing in the florescent light and waving in the breeze from the window – was just blow-dried and smelled of lilacs. She had rouged her cheeks and lips, but her eyes held the blue sparkle they always had.

  He knew every line on her face and what caused them. The crinkles around her eyes were from laughing and squinting. The sorrow lines on her forehead were from when their son died fifteen years earlier. And around her mouth – from nose to chin – were the lines from when she smiled.

  And she was smiling now. Standing up speak to him, reaching out to touch him.

  “Darling, I need new socks.” She said, “I’ll take the car.”

  “I’m going with you, Marie,” He answered, walking over to stand close.

  She laughed. It was a tinkling of little silver bells a bit worn from much use. And how he loved it.

  She put a hand – painted beautiful designs of blue and green from the veins – on his shoulder and kissed his neck. She couldn’t stand on her tip-toes anymore. He bent down to receive more kisses from her mouth.

  “No dear,” He chided after she was done, “I’m still driving.”



  The tears were coming now. Hot, fierce, wet tears – tears of grief and tears of pain. Tears of remorse. These he didn’t wipe away, these he let burn a course down his withered cheeks. And it was his fault, wasn’t it? He had insisted on driving, he had not seen the other vehicle.

  A big hand descended on his shoulder, “Dad…”

  “It’s my fault, Harold. My fault that she’s dead. Lizzy will blame me and hate me even more, and rightfully so.” He crumpled into the nearest bench – the park was right by the hospital, almost part of it – and wept. These tears, how hot these tears felt. Scalding his eyes. He put his hand to his eyes and folded over. The pain was not in his heart – the pain was in his stomach. A wrenching, deep pain that pummeled him, punching upward to his heart.

  The soft singing went on.

  “Dad, look over there.” Harold’s voice was soft.

  He wiped his eyes and looked up. Harold was looking behind the bench, in the distance. Shakily he stood, balancing his weight on back of the bench. But he stood straighter, straighter then he had for three years. “What?”

  He heard a voice.

  “Elizabeth!”

  It sounded like Marie! He turned slowly and searched. His eyes spotted a small figure, bent, and with a halo of white hair weaving in the air around her. Her dress was black and she wore a blue scarf, the one he bought for her seven years ago. The one that complemented her eyes.

  “Elizabeth!” She called again.

  “Harold,” he warbled, “Is that your mother?”

  He looked up and Harold’s face was split into a grin, “Yup.”

    He stared at the vision again. Was this torment, or heaven?

  “Mother, you’re not wearing your jacket.” Another familiar voice called back, “It’s windy today.”

  “Oh, bother that, angel. We have to go back to the hospital now.” Her voice was cracking, and weak. Was she sick?

  No, she was dead.

  “But mom, are you sure? It’s getting dark now. We need to head home soon.” Lizzy wore a dark sweater that went up to her neck, and her blonde hair brushed it softly as she walked towards her.

  “Angel! You will not stop me-” her thin shoulders bent and she turned her face into her hands.

  “I’m sorry, mom. I love him too, I’m just concerned about your health – you could catch pneumonia in this wind!”

  He turned to Harold, “What wind?”

  Harold shrugged, “Maybe they feel wind?” He suggested.

  “Bother that!” Marie’s voice was stronger now, “We need flowers.”

  Her voice still sounded like something was hurting. Her neck was arched in such a way, and her shoulders bowed just the way it always was when she was covering her feelings. Damming her flood of emotions.

  The pain was ebbing now – the pain in his stomach and heart. He must have misunderstood.

  “Roses, again?” Their angel asked in a subdued voice, encircling Marie in her long arms.

  “One white rose.” He barely heard Marie whisper. He felt so weightless!

  “Then to the hospital we go,” Lizzy said.

  They turned away and walked to the hospital door. He blinked rapidly, “Do you see them also?” He asked Harold.

  “Of course, dad.”

  “Then they cannot be ghosts?”

  Harold just laughed.

  A light and sound exploded around him, warm and enveloping. Soothing. Blinding. Deafening.

  “What’s happening?” He demanded, “Where did they go?!” He looked around, but only light surrounded him. It took his pain. It took his sight. It took his wanting, his guilt. It took everything. And it sang to him.

  “Harold, where are you?”

  “I’m right here, dad.” A warm hand touched his arm.

  He looked up and Harold smiled down at him – light shining from his warm blue eyes.

  “Where did they go?” He asked again.

  Then he saw them – his wife and his daughter – bending over his body in the hospital. A limp, lifeless shell.

  “What’s going on?” He asked, alarmed.

  “Just watch, dad.”

  They lay a single white rose on his chest. Marie kissed his blue lips and Lizzy patted his shoulder. A tear glittered in the corner of Lizzy’s eye as she leaned over him and it dropped on his pale, waxen nose. They spoke to each other, but he could hear nothing. The singing was so loud, and so beautiful.

  He turned back to the light. Back to Harold, “I understand.” He said simply.

  Harold grinned again and patted him on the back.

  He scowled, “You’re really bad at this.” He grumbled.

  Harold laughed, “This is the first time I’m doing this, dad. Cut me some slack.” Harold took his hand, “You’ll like it there.”

  He glanced back at the cold, little hospital room. Marie and Lizzy were clinging to each other and sobbing.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Harold said softly, “Mourning only lasts for a season, but joy comes in the morning. She’ll be joining us soon.”

  He turned to his son and smiled. He would go with the angels and would prepare heaven for her, make it perfect.

  And the singing there was so beautiful. How she would love it.