A Rare Rose

It was a hot summer day; the sun beat down with intensity as the old farmer walked along the dirt road. Even through his straw hat, the sun rays beat down upon his brow. With his tattered handkerchief, he wiped the sweat beads that formed on his forehead. The heat sweltered and his steps started to grow slower, but old farmer trudged on down the road with his mule by his side. As tired as he was, he had to keep going. Dressed in shabby overalls, covered in dust from the dirt road, the old farmer’s appearance drew both attention and laughter from people that passed by in cars. He wasn’t fazed at all. “If only they knew,” as he reminisced on days passed. The old farmer remembered how this stretch of land used to be mostly farms, bountiful with fruits and vegetables, not to mention plenty of animals. This was a time where transportation consisted of horse-drawn buggies and wagons, especially in the small town where he grew up. He was the fourth of seven children, all of whom were gone now, including his parents. Growing up, his father was a sharecropper, his mother a homemaker. A little felt like a lot in those times. No matter how bad things got, his parents made sure there was still food on the table and clothes on their back. Winters used to be harsh, but he remembered how he and his siblings would snuggle up under one of Mama’s hand-made quilt in front of the wood fireplace. As he grew older, he worked side-by-side with his father in the fields, planting seeds and such. He admired how hard his father worked to provide for the family. Interrupting his thoughts was the bray of his old mule. “We can stop for a minute,” he said to the old mule as he pulled out a canteen of water. As he and his mule rested, his mind wondered back to when he met his true love. When he grew of age, he went to school, but he wanted to help the family. As the oldest boy, he would pick up odd jobs, which consisted of working neighbors’ fields and making deliveries for some of the stores in town. One of these deliveries was where she was working as a young maid. When she answered the door, her smile lit his heart up. She chuckled as he stuttered to say “Delivery”. Years later, they married after a grand courtship. She was his world. He always called her his rare rose, because she was like no other. A tear formed in his eye as he thought about his love, now gone. Looking under the brim of his hat, he saw that the sun was setting. “Not much farther now,” he said as he and his mule set off again on their journey. Just as the moon and stars embraced the sky, there was his destination, his wife’s grave. He stared at the headstone, holding back tears. But he smiled as he began to think about her smile, laugh, everything that he loved and missed about her. He removed the knapsack on his mule’s back, pulling a silk handkerchief from it. Within the handkerchief was a rose gently wrapped. It was no ordinary rose. When the old farmer lost his wife, this rare rose with a plethora of colors grew amid the red roses. When he saw this rose, he knew his wife’s spirit was still there with him. Kneeling, he placed the rose on the grave, caressing the headstone. Looking up to the bright starry sky, he said “Goodbye, my love” and began his journey back home. As he glanced back at the grave, the engraving on the headstone seemed to be illuminated by the bright moon. An engraving which read, my loving wife, the rarest rose shone bright as if his wife’s spirit knew the rose was there. The moon’s beam seemed to be set on the rose laying on the grave. A rose colored with all the dimensions of his never-ending love. A rose that withstood the journey, with not a petal touched or broken. A rare rose for his rare rose.