life of a rose

You wake up and look at the table next to your bed. The pure, white rose has always been there for as long as you can remember, never wilting. Its silky petals are as fresh as ever, even though it is as old as you, and its stem is still a young, spring green. Ten years old. Throughout this short decade that you have been alive, you have never thought of anything remotely unwholesome. Any trouble that might have entangled you was all on accident, or it was excusable because of your childish innocence.

You are eighteen now. The world you live in simply will not allow any one person to be as unsullied as you were as a little boy. With all the difficulties of life hurling your way, you must sidestep them and sometimes cheat. The only aspect that remains constant is your white rose. Every night, with troubled thoughts battering your brain, you find it hard to fall asleep, so you stroke the silky smooth rose petals. Although the petals are soft, the stem, still quite fresh, is covered with thorns, and you are careful to not touch them. Inevitably, you prick your finger. A pearl of blood oozes out, but that is not what catches your attention; the stem is now black. Shocked at the transformation, you quickly return the rose to its crystal vase.

This year, you turn thirty. You have built your way up to the top through lies, cheating, and artifice. Even with your success, the guilt and fear of having your secrets divulged continues to keep you up at night. Your only comfort is the white rose. The black stem is still there, but the flower is still white, and that relieves you. You stroke it every night. Months later, you realize that black veins tarnish the white petals. However, this does not stop you from finding comfort from the rose. As you turn thirty-five, you realize that half the rose is black. This darkens your spirits, reminding you of the falsehoods you have told.

The rose is black, and you are fifty. Living in a fine mansion, you have already achieved everything that you wished for, but you don’t deserve any of it. Although the texture of the flower still provides you comfort at night as you battle with insomnia, the pitch darkness of its previously snowy petals sends chills down your back. This last bit of comfort in your life has been pushed away from you, and you decide that although the glamor is surely a plus, it is better to confess and live where you truly belong. The next day, you tell your publicity crew all that you have done.

It has been ten years since you divulged your long-held secret. You are slowly working your way back, and you live in a cozy cottage in the countryside, a welcome change from the bustling city life. You have brought your rose along with you, even during the time in which you were imprisoned. The insidious black blood in the rose is slowly seeping away and disappearing, and you are glad to see a glimpse of pure white again, bringing you back to your innocent days.

At age sixty-four, you bring your rose with you in a journey around the world to enjoy all the places you have visited but was never able to truly experience. Giving to the needy and amassing pearls of wisdom, your rose seems to shine brighter than ever in a blinding white gown with only a bit of iridescent gray shimmering near its stem. You sigh, for although this could never match the fame and power, your new life has an innocent yet profound beauty that cannot be equated by the past that taints you forever.