The Rose

Have you ever come across something that wasn’t meant for your eyes, but aroused your curiosity? Did it make you frown because you didn’t know about a secret, or that it may have some news worthy message concerning…well, anything?

It was the dried rose pressed flat between the pages of a well-worn book that did it for me. A faint scent, sweet and musky at the same time, crawled inside my nose and made me sneeze. The book’s spine was cracked and the cover, a faded indigo blue, held pages edged in gold.

Wrapping the fragile book in muslin cloth, I closed the attic door and crept with weary decrepit legs down the wooden stairs. The clock chimed six times, so I made some Oolong tea and carried it into the parlor. That’s what Corinne called it. The parlor, as if it was a great and beautiful room with velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, and a roaring fireplace. It was merely a sitting room and I sat in my chair with the worn toile fabric and a cushion long dented by my posterior.

Gently opening the book, I read each page written on in blue ink, handling them with the utmost care. I recognized the spiky flourish of my wife’s handwriting, yet so legible, and grinned as I turned each delicate page. She recorded all her joys in her younger life, and then I saw my name.

“My John, I blush at the thought of seeing him. He makes me so happy and we will be married, forever.” The writings and quotes ended the day before we married, 62 years ago, and then life swept us away with joy and laughter.

I closed my eyes, peaceful and forever happy in dreams when she calls me, my John.


Word Count: 300