The Rose

The Rose

         "Let’s plant the roses over here, momma,” were the first words the rose ever heard. The next thing the little rose knew, she was being planted in the nice, warm dirt, next to a white trellis. The little rose looked around, and saw many more plants in the lovely garden. Some were hanging, others were in the nice comfortable ground. All were looking at the newcomer to the garden.
         The rose watched as the little girl and her mother walk back to the house. The rose rather liked the little one, who scooped the nice warm dirt so gently around the rose’s roots. After the house’s door was closed, the rose thought she heard whispering from behind her, “Oh, look at her. Isn’t she pretty? What kind
of flower is she?” And sure enough, the rose looked around and found the violets whispering behind their green leaves.
         The tall, queenly rose looked down on the childlike violets, and felt suddenly shy. This was her first time among other plants, and she didn’t know what to do or say. The violets didn’t let her feel shy for long, however. “You’re new in the garden, aren’t you?” The littlest violet asked, although she had just seen the rose being planted. The question, as a garden rule, was always used to break the ice and get aquatinted with new plants.
         The stately rose nodded her delicate head. The dark red petals moved gently in the sun. “What exactly do we do in a ... garden?” Never before being in a garden, the word was new to her, as were any of the other plants.
         The oldest, therefore the prettiest and wisest, violet, spoke up. “Well, we sit here in this beauty and grandeur,” the violet gestured around the garden with her leaf. “We sit here, and grow pretty for the little one and her mother, who care for us. You are fortunate, for you are the prettiest of all. And you needn’t be shy. We are all very kind, and you will be welcome here.” The old one moved her head to
peak around the rose’s petals. “You are the only one of your kind?”
         The rose looked at the rest of her tiny bush. “I guess so.”
         “Well, you needn’t worry. Soon, others will grow, and you will have a splendid family.” The violet gestured to the babies in front of her. “These little ones are my grandchildren.”
         “What will happen when more roses grow?” The rose was curious now.
         The violet thought for a moment. “Well, and mind you more roses may not grow until next spring, some roses may be cut, to bring color inside the house of the little one. But some may be left on the bush, to return season after season.
         “Seasons?”
         The violet had to remind herself that the rose was new to the world. She had, not that long ago, explained the same things to her granddaughters. “Yes, there are four: Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. Spring and Summer are our time to shine. In Autumn, we will start to get sleepy, and by the time Winter comes, we will be covered in a nice blanket of snow, waiting for Spring.”
         “It sounds like a dreadfully long process,” the rose said.
         “Oh, no. It’s not long at all. You see, time for us goes faster than for that of the little one. Seasons will slip by before we know it, although Spring and Summer last longer than the other two.”
         The violet’s last statement was so very true; in fact, in the amount of time the two flowers were talking, the leaves of the trees started changing colors. “Is this what you call ... Autumn?” The rose asked, in hushed awe.
         The violet nodded. “Now it won’t be long before Winter sleep is upon us.”
         The rose seemed content at the idea. Soon, the leaves were falling over the flower beds. the little one came out to the garden to clear the leaves from around the roses. And, when she was walking back to the house, snow started falling, so very softly. The rose never imagined anything could be so beautiful. And almost as soon
as the snow started falling, the rose was sleeping peacefully, dreaming of what the following Spring would bring.

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         Springs and Summers came and went. More roses grew on the bush, and the bunch were a happy little family. Some of the roses were cut, and some did not survive the Winter storms, but the original grew brighter and more beautiful by the season.
         The roses weren’t the only things growing up. The little one was bigger each Spring. But she never forgot her dear roses. Every Spring she would weed and water, and every Summer she would sit and read by the roses, or simply enjoy the
beauty of the garden.
         One day, the mother, who was still as beautiful but grayer, came out of the house with a pair of garden shears. When she bent over the bush, the rose noticed that there were tears in her eyes. The little one, who had turned into a young lady, came out of the house and put her arm around her mother.
         “Do you remember when we planted these roses?” the mother asked, between sniffles. “You were only ten. It was so long ago.” She looked at the girl. “I still want to think of you as that little girl. But I can’t do that anymore.”
More tears came.
         “Oh, momma,” the girl struggled to keep her own tears back as she hugged her mother harder. “Just because I am getting married tomorrow doesn’t mean that I won’t still be your little girl.”
         The mother hugged her daughter. Then she turned back toward the roses, and her garden shears. The rose asked the violet what was going on.
         “Oh, you should feel very honored. You are going to be part of the little one’s wedding bouquet. I will miss you, though.”
         The rose found herself separated from her roots, her bush. The woman gathered the roses and some little white plants called baby’s breath toward the house. Before they got there, though, the rose looked over the shoulder of the woman and
called, “Thank you for every thing, Violet. I will miss you too.” In the house, the plants were tied up with a white ribbon. The bouquet was then put in the refrigerator to await the morning.
         When the rose woke up the nest day, she beheld the little one all clad in white, her head covered in a white mist of veil. The girl, who had planted and cared for the rose its entire life, had tears of joy in her eyes. The rose, with tears of her own, looked into the eyes of the young bride, and fell into a sleep, never to awaken again. In the end it was a fitting death for the little flower. It was born and planted in the eyes of the little girl, and it had left the world part of the most important day in the girl’s life.