A Winters Rose

The snow floated gently down on the assembly. The graves of those who had gone before, lie silently covered in their blankets of white. I stood against the chill of winter, my head bowed, contemplating. Contemplating life, contemplating death, contemplating the impact of one simple life upon this ball of mud called Earth. She was born, she lived, she died, it was as simple as that, or was it? In her years what had she accomplished? Her meager possessions had already been divvied up amongst those of us left. A few scraps of cloth, a few shards of glass, a couple of bits of gold, photographs faded by time, only this and nothing more.

The minister said his Amens' and bade us to go in peace. Peace, what was that, I wondered as I made my way to the wood coffin. The coffin gleamed dully against the stark winter's backdrop. The gaping hole, a black earthen maw lie silently beneath her, ready to swallow her up. I plucked a rose from the funeral spray, something to remember this day by, as if I would ever forget.

The white snow landed on the blood red of the bud melting, making the rose appear to be weeping. I turned and began to walk, the winds whispered to me as I carefully picked my way over the frozen waste. I searched the landscape for something to cheer me, to thaw my freezing heart, but there was nothing only silence and decay from the graves. At least the day was over, I thought to myself from the solace of my car, turning the key, backing out of the cemetery, I left her behind, left her behind to sleep in the black silence of eternity. The hum of my tires on the interstate was a rhythm of comfort. I was away from that wretched place, away from the stench of chrysanthemums, away from the well wishers, those who claimed to understand, but they couldn't; away, safely away from the remnants of my life, a life that would never be the same.

The house was as dark and silent as the grave in which she slept, I put my souvenir in a tiny bit of water, but it was too late the beauty of the rose had already faded, it withered much has she had, their lifetimes spent. Carefully I pressed the petals between two books, I wondered to myself why people insist on doing this, how could a person's life be remembered by a dead, dried out flower? I poured myself a hit of whiskey and flipped on the TV, not to watch, but to drown out the deafening roar of silence. After a few more shots, I fell into a restless and troubled slumber.

I dreamt of her, her hair as white as the snow which covered her grave. Her smile, always warm and welcoming, the look she always had in her brown eyes, a look of knowing things which others did not, and sometimes, she did. Her voice and her scent haunted me, I wondered if I had done right by her. Would she have liked the funeral? Was the minister the one she would have picked? What about the flowers, the music, her funeral dress, was she satisfied? Did I do the right thing by following her wishes and allowing her to die? Maybe I could have done something more, but in the end there was no more to be done, me a simple human following the commands of another, the doctors mere mortals, powerless to stop the progression of time. I had to make a decision, I had a question that I would never have an answer to; did I make the right one?

The minutes turned into hours, the hours into days, the days into weeks, till months had passed. She was with me every second of every day, watching over me, whispering to me the same way that she always did. I began to wonder who died that day, who was buried beneath the cold dark earth, her or me? She had gone on, I remained left behind, changed by what had occurred, but still the same. I had to find a reason for it, there had to be an explanation.

I looked to others for comfort and solace but found none. There simply were no answers, only more questions. I pushed the great oak door open, the church was dark and musty, and the evening rays of sun struck the panels of colored glass casting sad reflections onto the creaking wood floor. Far above, the crucified body of Christ looked down upon burning incense and candles, on my knees I looked up at Him. The Virgin Mary knowingly smiled down at me. I asked my questions, whispered my prayers, waiting silently for answers, the statues stood at their posts, mute. No secrets were revealed that day, or in the days that followed.

I stood in the doorway to what was once her room, a gallon of paint in my grip. The sickly gray that had once adorned the walls was replaced stroke by stroke, the past disguised with latex. Blue, the brilliant blue of a future that had no meaning to me, the blue of my pain, the blue of my anger; I moved some furniture into the room, making it a study. A study for what? Evening light crept through the white plastic mini blinds, turning my brilliant blue in to the same sickly gray color that I had concealed. I was transformed back, this was her room again, and I thought that if I listened closely enough, I could hear her last gasps for air, a painful wheezing and rattling, the sounds that haunted my dreams every night.

I took pills to sleep; each night the dreams were the same, dreams of death. I couldn't escape the reality of it, not even in my dreams. The stench of death, the black silence of the grave, the deafening roar of the death rattle, the sobs of the family, and the flood of tears. I had prayed for the Lord to take her fast, to end her misery. She had been good and kind to me, and I loved her. The moment came and it was over, her worn out body lay lifeless in the bed, the starched white sheet that covered her lay still across her. I looked to the doctors and nurses, asking why? They looked away, there was no explanation, her body had simply given out, and she had simply given up.

Simply given up, it was unfathomable. Didn't she realize how much I needed her? Didn't she realize how dark and lifeless the world was without her? She was my light, and that light had gone out, I was lost and alone. Her birthday was drawing near. I searched through the flower shops trying to find an adornment worthy of her, something that would tell the world that underneath this cold slab of concrete, the remains of a great, kind, and loving woman remained. Nothing was good enough, nothing was suitable, I couldn't bring myself to travel out to her grave empty handed, and I whispered a short apology to her, hoping she would forgive me.

A strange thing began to happen; I was finding pennies almost everywhere that I went. I found pennies in parking lots, in the seat of my car, in the laundry hamper; it seemed that no matter where I went, a penny was there. Some of the pennies were bright and shiny new, some were green with age, some were a dull brown. I had begun to collect the pennies, pitching them into an old mug of hers that I had kept. I had bought the mug for her one year for Christmas. I had earned money by shoveling snow and sweeping walks. After carefully shopping to select the perfect present and proudly digging the money out of my shoe, I presented it to her, full of steaming hot coffee. She was so surprised; she used the mug every morning there after. The mug was chipped in spots, but the words were still legible, blue against a yellow background "I love you" they spelled.

One day I was bent over picking up a penny when a woman stopped me. She looked down at me from under the brim of her sun visor; her slip was peeking from under the hem of her cheap polyester skirt. "You know, those are pennies from heaven," she said. I looked up at her, not sure of how to reply. "I believe that those who love us pitch pennies down on us as a way to tell us that they are watching over us and keeping us safe" she reached into her pocket and pulled out a penny of her own. "This one is from my husband, you know something though, and the living have to keep on living. The dead want us to be happy, that's why they give us pennies, to remind us." She shifted her bag, hefting her great purse onto her shoulder and waddled to her car, leaving me stooping in a parking lot to ponder what she had said.

That evening after having a couple of stout shots of whiskey, I came up with an idea. I pulled up to the tattoo parlor and told them about my idea. The artist was a large, burly man with several tattoos of his own. He drew up a sketch and after bearing my shoulder, set about doing his work. The drinks I had earlier might have dulled my sense of reason, but not my sense of pain. My arm felt as if it were on fire, the buzz of the gun was deafening in my ears, but for once, I couldn't hear her gasps. I almost stopped him in the middle of his work, but I stuck it out, I had to do this. I would be her memorial, the tattoo her monument, the design an outward expression of my inward pain.

I inspected his work, the design was intricate; a ring of forget-me-nots encircling a penny. The forget –me-nots were her favorite flower, every year, her summer gardens were filled with them. The penny was to remind me that she was watching over me and that I was never alone. I chose to tattoo it on my back to remind me to leave the past behind, the penny was heads up, looking forward to my future, unknown. The pain that I endured from the tattoo seemed to ease the pain that I had endured for months.

I pressed the breaks on the car, turning onto the dirt road of the cemetery, greeted by the rows of gray and black tombstones. I could have found hers blindfolded, easing the car into park and turning off the engine, I walked across the freshly mown grass. I sat in front of the marker, tracing the name with my fingertip. "Beloved" she was my beloved, and I was hers. I told her about what had been going on in my life, as if she didn't already know. I showed her my new tattoo, she didn't agree with getting tattoos, but I knew she approved of this one.

I had finally found peace, I finally had my answers, life is for the living and death was a part of that life, one could not exist without the other. She was still as real as I was, she left because it was her time, and my time is yet to come. I hadn't made the wrong decisions, the decisions were never mine to make. She was safe and happy, and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, so was I.