A door, a gift of roses , a couple, an old lady, a young man. How are they connected?
The door would not open. We walked 'round and 'round. There was meadow as far as we could see. But here at the door step it seemed somehow tamed. Not willing to soil our clothes we sat down and pondered that.
We were alone. All alone. Looking towards us you would have seen an abandoned door, nothing more.
A deer passed by, paused to look our way, then kept on browsing. Apparently there was nothing to see.
We loved the smells and sounds of solitude. Never enjoyed them to the fullest when we were alive. We squatted above our bones.
Once a young girl looked at us, laughed, clutching some daisies and one limp yellow rose, laid them on the threshold, smiled, nodded, and went her way.
That was seasons ago.
If grass can be patient, so can we.
Winter was best. The meadow slumbered under its fluffy blanket and the only life around wended its way through a jumble of stones and bones.
We had disappeared in winter. Got caught in a blizzard, couldn't find our way back, huddled against the door to block the wind and waited.
Until the door opened and...
we fell in.
But that was ages ago. Guess no one found us and no one visits.
Except for that once.
Oh, sure, folks came when the weather was nice to admire the door. They picnicked in the meadow, children running around whooping and hollering. Loud enough to wake up the dead!
But they never suspect we were watching and waiting.
Everyone tried the door. It never budged. We waited some more.
Waiting for what? Not Spring, not summer, not autumn.
One rainy winter day an old lady came by with a young man and two rose bushes.
"One for each. One at each side." She paused to look at the door. "Use this shovel. Make a big hole. I'll help."
She seemed to ignore us as she carefully planted them, a white rose bush on one side, a pink rose bush on the other. She placed a single yellow long-stem rose between them.
"They should do well here. No need to add bone meal. They'll bloom come spring." Then she nodded her head in our direction. "We'll be back."
We looked into her eyes. They were blind.
All winter we waited. We could feel the roots reaching towards us as if they could tickle us, as if they dared. The snow melt entered them and we felt their sap rise, little by little, slow and steady, wary of a frost. Finally the first leaves ventured forth. Our bones rejoiced.
The weather warmed and one bud got impatient, then another. Soon we were graced with white and pink. All dressed up as it were, and nowhere to go. The hips set on as petals fell.
We did not see our benefactors that spring or summer, until one breezy autumn day a young man walked across the meadow carrying a small box.
The man sighed. "We were delayed," he said, nodding towards one of us then the other. "I'm sorry. My grandmother's last wish was to join you."
He grasped the doorknob and opened the door, gently placing the box of ashes at our feet.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.203] (13.agosto.2021)
For "Chapter One"