Under the Roses

         The girl spins in her pale yellow dress.  Her mother walks behind her in a matching white sundress as they walk through their backyard under the rose arch.  Red roses climb up the wooden arch marking the entrance to the garden.  The deep green of the vines covers the light tan of the wood.  A grey stone path leads to a fountain in the middle of the garden and past the surrounding flowers. The fountain sprays water in the air making tiny rainbows in its wake.  The girl splashes the water in the pond scaring the small gold fish forcing them to hide under the water lilies.  The mother laughs and calls her daughter over.  She hands the girl a small watering can, a miniature version of her own.  The two of them water the flowers under the mother’s guidance.  Flowers of all colors and sizes are in bloom or are waiting to bloom later in the season.  Foliage plants and grasses, planted as a contrast for the flowers, show off their hues of green and red.  Humming birds, bumble bees, and butterflies float throughout the entire garden zipping from flower to flower.  “When you’re older, I’ll let you be in charge of the flowers and you can be the one to let me help you.  How does that sound?”  The girl laughs and smiles in response.  The mother smiles down at her daughter.  "That's my girl."

         The girl, now a grown woman, dressed in a business suit and heels, walks under the arch.  The rose’s vines are dehydrated and a dead grey.  Weeds push up between the stones in the path.  The fountain is empty of water with the goldfish long dead.  Cracks, chips, and moss are visible in a couple spots on the fountain.  Inside the fountain, a dark discolored ring is left from the water.  The plants that were so abundant are now limp and dark.  Dried leaves are packed in around each of the plants, some covering plants completely erasing their existence from the eye.  A wheel chair is stationed next to the fountain.  The frail woman is wrapped in a blanket over her lap and a shawl over her shoulders.  Her hands are folded over her lap, her skin stretched and wrinkling with age.  The young woman walks over to the wheel chair.  She smiles sadly as she kneels in front of the wheel chair.  “I’m home, Mom.”

© Copyright 2009 Ayame Karisuma (UN: ayamekarisuma at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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