A Magical Romance

A Magical Romance



The full moon in New Orleans is notorious, but often times magical.  And so it was just after a brief rain shower the usual flower cart vendors headed out into the suffocating humidity to entice tourist with a bouquet of flowers.  “Flowers for your love?”

Deacon wanted a flower for Marie, but his pockets held only loose change.  That was until a scuffle ensued between rival vendors.  Territory accusations were shouted and carts pounded against each other, sending their livelihood onto the pavement making a mockery of their profession.  The squabble wasn’t settled but with dozens of eyes watching they individually scooped up their precious product and went their separate ways—in a huff.

Left behind on the slick-wet street and by every standard perfect, lay a blush of innocence.  It’s intoxicating fragrance like perfume from heaven. A pink rose.

Deacon swept it up into big hands, cradling it like a wounded bird and with a mock bow offered it to Marie.  “For you, my lady.” 

“It’s so beautiful, it seems to glow,” said Marie.

“Probably just the moon.”  Only a short bit of stem remained, so Deacon tucked it into Marie’s ponytail.  “You look even more radiant.”

The rest of the evening they smiled at each other and they felt something change.

Several years later, after finishing school, they found lucrative jobs and were crazy in love.  Their wedding day came, then two children.  Their son and daughter grew up happy and left the nest to have their own families. 

Deacon and Marie never forgot their beginnings and still strolled the Quarter, listening to jazz and blues music spilling from the clubs, as if they were still those penniless young kids.  They always held hands, except when they sat for a cup of coffee and powdery beignets. Or, when Deacon bought Marie a single rose from the flower cart vendor, he always said, “I love you, Marie.”

She returned the sentiment, while blushing the color of a pale pink rose, and forever happy in love.

The morning light slanted into their bedroom and Deacon felt a change.  Marie passed in her eightieth year.  He wept and laid his bony hands on each side of her face, which if he was not mistaken, seemed to glow and kissed her heart-shaped lips.

Deacon cried for hours after the funeral.  He even sat in her favorite chair by the bookcase where Marie would read wearing the simple wire glasses she needed later in life.  He mumbled to himself, “Marie, Marie.”

A swoosh and a thump pulled him from his misery.  A book laid splayed open on the old wood floor. Puzzled, he lifted it to his lap and flipped through a book of love poems until he came to a dried up flower pressed between the pages.

Marie had written in the book.  My first rose from Deacon, and it is magical.

Love’s perfume wafted up from the book, and Deacon smiled at his happy memories, grateful for eternal love.




Word count: 498