A Dozen Red Roses

Her fingers tightened around the stem of the rose. One of the stems pricked her finger, a small drop of blood gathering on the tip of her index finger. The sharp sting was the first encounter she had with the beautiful flower, gifted to her by her parents for her graduation. She smiled brightly in her photos anyways, ignoring the small prick. Her future lied ahead of her, and the rose in her hands was a keepsake she would keep for the rest of her life. 

The second rose, another gift, was one gifted by a stranger at the park. He had bowed and gifted it to her, claiming she was infinitely more beautiful than any beauty a flower could offer. She had laughed, thanking him and saying the same back to him. He had tipped his hat when he stood, and she continued to walk. Sometimes she wishes she held that conversation longer, just a few more lines. Missed opportunities would show up everywhere in her life, she soon learned. You have to grab the ones you don’t know are there just so you don’t regret them later. She had returned to the park, and another lady had a rose. So many red roses, the love in the world shining.

The third rose. She hated it. It shouldn’t be sitting in the vase on her table, but it was. Every time she saw it, regret flooded her heart. It was locked in her mind, stuck in her brain on repeat. She couldn’t escape it. The bright red flooded the room, standing out against the monotone scheme. Every time a petal fell to the ground, just a little bit more relief flooded through her, happy it vanished from view faster and faster. The third rose would always be the first, given to her by a dead person. How terrifying it is to lose your closest companion in life. Losing her mom was worthy of a rose, but it killed her every time she saw it. Memories came with it, and when the petals were gone and wilted in the trash, they left with it.

Her first long-term romance was the fourth. On the first date, he had shown up with a single rose in his hands. She could tell he was just as nervous as her, the way his eyes danced left and right while she walked up. He had discreetly wiped his hands on his pants when he thought she wasn’t looking. She had seen it, and she was glad he felt the same nervousness as her. They had dinner at a basic three-star restaurant that he had been going to since he was a kid. She was in love with it, and she felt herself swoon every time he opened his mouth. They had gone for a movie afterward, and it began to rain as they got out of the car. They sprinted to the front doors of the theater and getting soaked by the rain. They were laughing, holding hands, and she wrung her hair out before stepping inside. He was in awe the entire time, her beauty increasing every time she looked at him. 

Having a daughter of her own was the fifth rose. When she had come home from the hospital, her tiny creation of life in her hands, she was exhausted. The rose stood in the same vase the third one had, but this one brought different emotions. Love, relief, exhaustion, and hopefulness all fueled her as she kissed her boyfriend of 3 years on the cheek and handed him her daughter. Her name would be Athena, she had decided, because her daughter would be strong and notable, turning people’s heads wherever she walked. She fell onto the bed that night, her daughter sleeping in the other room, and her husband to wake up and watch over their beloved child.

With half a dozen roses, she had met the middle of her life. The 6th rose was a landmark, the first flower she had seen when she walked down the aisle and looked up to her fiance standing at the altar. A mini rose was tucked into the front pocket of his suit, just barely peeking out. She walked slowly, powerfully, everyone’s eyes trained on her. She couldn’t restrain the huge smile growing on her face with every step she took, she was far too excited. She would soon be Misses instead of Miss. Her elegant white dress hugged her frame, brushing the ground as she walked. She took a deep breath as she stepped up, coming face to face with her soon-to-be husband, and grabbed his hands as they rehearsed. Her grip was tighter now, nervously holding on for him to ground her. She stuttered at first when she began her vows. She didn’t need any cards, or a slip of paper to read from. She had memorized her speech, memorized him, and memorized everything she found beautiful in life. That night, they had gotten home and their shoes were kicked off by the door. Her dress came off before she slipped underneath the covers. They had kissed with intertwined fingers, music falling from her lips and the rings shining and reflecting the light from the single bedside lamp.

The seventh rose was the first of her daughter’s dozen, a gift to her for graduation. She held the thornless stem of the flower in front of her, her other hand occupied with a certificate. She had become a woman now, already eighteen. Her gown covered her feet, low-heeled shoes hidden away beneath the ocean of dark fabric. The rose complimented her smile, the beginning of her own story, and a dozen roses she was bound to find in the future. 

Eight is two-thirds of the dozen, only three others left in her story. They both knew, even though he was only at his seventh. She had woken up to breakfast in bed the day of her fifty-fifth birthday, a small rose in a smaller vase sitting on the top left corner of her placemat. A cup of scalding hot coffee sat across from it, and a plate in the center. Belgium waffles with sticky sweet syrup soaked in, changing the color and texture of the soft breakfast food. She had kissed her husband’s lips, a soft and sweet peck to say thank you. She had grown old with him, and throughout the entire thirty-two years she had known him, never once had she regretted any decision she made involving him. The house was a soft place of love and sweet memories, roses all living as part of the house they had chosen out together after they had gotten married.

The ninth rose and tenth rose came together, both bringing sorrow and misery to her house, ruining her once more. They rested next to each other, lying vertically in front of two tombstones that signified the life both of her parents had lived. Her father wasn’t alone any longer, instead, he was now dead beneath the ground with the woman he had loved until the very end. She was sure he would love her even longer, the romance and feelings between the pair rare and hard to find in today’s world. They have been together beneath the dirt for a year now. Tears still clouded her eyes when she looked at the roses, blood-red color permanent in her mind and bringing the painful memory of the third rose back to her mind. It was haunting her, she was sure, painful and harsh in the dim lighting of her life. It had been six roses ago, her mother had been gone. Yet here she was, with another. She deserved it, though. A beautiful woman deserves a beautiful flower. Just like that stranger had said years ago in her youth when the second rose had been brought into her life.

The eleventh rose was perfect, nothing better she could’ve asked for. She and her husband were to go on a tropical cruise, and the look on his face when she told him was better than any anniversary present she could think of. He had another rose, a card, and a kiss for her, as well as a bag of her favorite chocolates and a trip to the same diner they met at. This time, the rose was dark. It was wilted. Dead. But, it was preserved, the same rose he had offered to her at the beginning of their relationship. It was in a necklace, the charm resin with pieces of the petals crumbled inside. The fourth rose had returned to claim its place as 11th. She smiled at the memory of their conjoined nervousness and the freedom they had felt. How she had felt drawn to his presence from the start. She hugged him weakly, kissing his cheek after he kissed hers.

The last rose. It was a threat to her, and it finally made its appearance. It was purchased from a flower shop, expensive and long-lasting. It rested on the ground above her, her corpse left in a heavy box to preserve her remains from degrading. She was dressed in her favorite sweater, and her husband had kissed her goodbye. His lips pressed her forehead softly, kissing her skin one last time before she would be officially gone forever. A complete bouquet of roses brought completion to her story, and the last one above her was the final goodbye. Soon, it would wilt and shrivel up, swallowed by the Earth just like she had been.