White Roses, Part 3, Final (Ghost Story)

(Just joining us? Check out Part 1 and Part 2.)

The young woman's steps disappear along the hedge. You turn back to the house and push against the weight of its emptiness.

You walk and listen. The silence reforms.

Tired and arthritic legs reach for each stair and lift you onto the porch. You sink into the chair on the left. Never the right. That is where your brother sat a lifetime ago when you were children. He slouched with his soft hat and his shoes dropping mud as it dried.

He was always the romantic one, saying hello to the ladies and blushing at the girls. He loved that old rose bush and used to offer the blossoms with his eyes shining. No one was safe in their yard on a summer afternoon, pretty or not.

You chuckled at their faces when he spoke to them and smiled. But he died before learning what their parted lips truly meant.

You fall asleep on the porch in the afternoon shade.

Your body lifts.

Just a little. And you see him. He gives you that little smile he always saved for you.

The pinch barely wakes you, and your fingers pat the thorny stem resting in your lap. You bring the bloom up and sprinkle the fragrance into your dream.

Wrinkled fingers lay it aside on wicker table.

A single white rose.


Back to Part 2.