The Last Summer Rose

The Last Summer Rose

The breakfast platter clinked as a wrinkled hand slid it atop its stack in the cupboard. The dishtowel on Vi's shoulder got tucked over the drying rail attached inside to the sink cabinet's door. From its hook on the mudroom wall, she grabbed and put on her yard apron and then slipped on her gardening shoes.

From her shed, Violet pulled the small cart with her tools. The hoe skimmed through the mulched bed in the center of her corner lot, dislodging the overnight weeds. Vi scrutinized each bush, her snips in hand. Any wayward branches, browning leaves, or spent blooms are clipped and set in her lawn cart.

But she rarely pruned the best blossoms and never the largest of the yellows. She is often careful to trim the leaves and nearby limbs to highlight the flower she likes best. Satisfied that everything was near perfect, Vi sprinkled some bonemeal and watered it in before putting away her tools.

On her way back to the house, she pops into Joe's backyard shop.

"I'm going in to finish lunch now… it will be on the table in thirty minutes."

Vi watches as her husband leans forward, hunching over his desk, hands working his tiny homemade tools as he reworked the old Rockwell Taxi-Meter, its gears, and drivers as intricate as any well-made clock.

A second later, he looks up as his head tilts slightly, his lips thin to expose his infectious grin. "Okay, Dear, I'll wash up."

Vi returned to the little country kitchen of their Florida Craftsman home. A few minutes later, the screen door slaps closed, and Joe moves across the kitchen floor. In his hand, a large, carefully pruned yellow rose. He holds it out to Violet, who takes yesterday's rose from the thin vase on the windowsill, replacing it with this new one, the prettiest from her garden.

Joe leaned in and tenderly kissed Vi on her lips while his hand softly slipped to pat her behind. He asked, "What's for lunch, Sweety?"

As it was, every day, Vi would reply as Joe made his way to the perfectly set kitchen table. While the menus varied, this routine was more dependable than the sunrise.

I never figured out whether my grandmother grew the roses for herself or my grandfather. There were always the little things that made you wonder… Papa never left his bedroom without a small knife in his pocket. He said, "One never knows when you'll need to cut or trim something; sometimes a life can depend on it."

One night, Joe got up, stumbling toward the bathroom, he fell in the hallway. Vi called for help, but it was too late. Joe's heart had beat its last. Weeks go by. Vi is frequently visited by friends, her son, daughter, and grandsons. Vi tries to be cheerful and happy, but everyone knows she is mad at Joe. In every conversation, she repeats, "He promised he would not leave me alone."

While Vi gets through her day, she complains of the emptiness and her lack of purpose. Her rose garden goes with little care. The weeds grow, leaves turn yellow and brown, and the branches sprawl out like naked bony fingers clawing at the melancholy air that smoothers heavily over the yard.

One late afternoon, her son George stops by on his way home from work. He entered and announced himself to a silent house. But there was no reply. He looked to the carport but saw Vi's three-wheeled bike resting in its usual spot. Vi never learned to drive. When asked why, she always replied…"That's what a husband is for."

A dark dread filled the kitchen like a cloud of smoke from a burned roast. George moved into the living room, where Vi lay peacefully on the sofa. Beneath softly closed eyes, her lips held what had been unseen in many months … a broad smile. George called 911, and the ambulance came, followed by my mother and us boys.

Only after Nana and the EMTs were gone, and Mom and Uncle George sat making phone calls and plans, my younger brother John … noticed the single yellow rose on the cocktail table, pushed to the side by the medics.

We all began wondering how it had gotten there… until I saw the pearl-handled penknife beside the rose. Everyone surmised that Vi had used it to pick one "Last Summer Rose." Everyone that is ... but me… because I knew the knife beside the rose was my grandfather's favorite. I had given it to him many years before as a birthday gift. More importantly, I knew, without a doubt, that it had been sitting in a small wooden box in the cabinet above my computer desk, for the last two years.

I picked up the knife, and the scent of a cheap "Have-A-Tampa" cigar filled my nostrils. Instantly, I heard my grandfather's words replay in my memory: "One never knows when he will need a good knife. Sometimes, a life can depend upon it." Then, I understood everything I needed about the flower's origin. I put the knife in my pocket, where it has been for the last 25 years. You see, one never knows when he might need to cut … one Last Summer Rose.