Roses

Cecilia Sherman

For our anniversary, you gave me roses from your garden, laughed and said you loved me while you spun me in your arms.

A week later, you left.

The roses sensed my black thumb, discolored and wilted right away. It's as though they yearned for you, were thirsty for your touch.

I filled the vase with water and moved them into sunlight; but the brown leaves would not uncurl, and the muted petals refused to regain their former vibrancy.

It's been six months and the stalks are black.

Mama says it's time to get out of the house.

I make empty promises to visit until finally she stops by, takes in the dishes balanced precariously in the sink.

She cleans the kitchen and makes pasta. She watches as I eat.

But when Mama tries to dump the flowers with the remains of dinner, I scream. "No, Mama! No! They're going to come back."

She shakes her head slowly, draws me into her embrace: "They're gone, my love. They're gone."

I snatch the roses from her hands; petals fly at my touch. "Just a little longer, Mama. I can bring them back." I press them to my chest and sob, "I can bring them back."