Roses

AUTHOR: Hannah

EDITOR: Kallie E. Sage

A dried rose sits in a vase. The petals are wilted, their colour a darkened hue. Its water is a muddied vessel for unwanted life as debris lay suspended. The leaves themselves have fallen to the dusty shelf below. 

It wasn’t always like this.

Once, the rose was a furious red. It bloomed in the middle of a storm, entering the world in a fit of violence like much of its family before. It was happy at home in its bush; it lived with other roses of all different types. With its family and friends who all went through the same hardships at the same time. The rose learned so much from its peers.

It learned how to protect itself: stem, statement, and thorn. It learned how to shield itself from dangers lurking outside. 

Yet—even with all this strength—the rose was still most known for its beauty. Its petals were luscious and full of life, the leaves stood up with turgor pressure, its scent was a soft and warming experience. It was everything to everyone.

Despite all this, the rose was snipped from its bush. A simple snap of its spine and it was dead.

But the flower was still asked to perform. 

Slam the feeble corpse into a vase of water and ask that to be enough—ask it to keep going. A flimsy bandaid placed over a maimed being is more than enough. What does it matter that it's suffering as long as it stays perfect for the rest of us? We expect the same from the flower at its best as we do at its worst.

Even in death, the rose could feel the absence of its home.

At first the flower seemed alright. In fact, even better than before because now it was performing for us rather than itself. A drooping leaf here and there could be tolerated as long as its petals are still vibrant with colour.

It grew ugly and misshapen with time, damaged bit by bit. First a leaf crumbled right off its stem, then the water turned murky, and then in a final act of protest, the beloved red petals drooped and began to wither in on itself.

It finally let us see the suffering that existed all along.

I’ve been meaning to throw out the flower for weeks now; months, even. But how can I let go of something born beautiful and turned ugly only by the world around it?