Roses are forever

The withered rose sat on my bedside table, I don’t dare move them. It’s like crepe paper now, one wrong touch and it’ll dissolve. The faded red-brown petals will always be beautiful to me, despite what others think.

I got it from my grandfather’s estate, the warm weather was better for my sister, Bettie’s, condition. My fondest memories are of us sitting among the roses while I read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; that was always her favorite. She always wanted to paint the white petals red; at the behest of our grandfather.

Anyways, that was how most of our days went. We sat and I read to her, hoping that the sunlight and fresh air would make her the slightest bit better. It was all in vain though

We all watched as Bettie grew worse and worse. One night she called across our room. She wanted to go to the garden; of course I obliged. As we made our way out to the garden she confided in me that she knew that she was about to die and that her last wish was to be laid down with the roses.

We reached the garden and I laid her down. Lying there, she looked grateful for the opportunity to rest. But before she drifted off permanently she asked one more thing of me. That I take two flowers, one for me and one for her, and paint them red just like her favorite story. I promised her that I would, of course. That promise became the last thing that she heard. I spent the rest of the night sobbing. Our family found us in the morning, me draped over her barely awake.

They took me inside and they began discussing plans for the funeral. They said that she would need to be taken to a mortuary first. I immediately protested, saying that it was her dying wish to be put there! They didn’t budge, talking about what the neighbors would say about letting their granddaughter rot out in the open without ceremony. They told me that they would leave her there until someone from the mortuary came to collect her tomorrow.

With the clock ticking I began my work. I searched the attic, the shed, and grandfather’s workshop for the perfect shade of red, but nothing was good enough for Bettie. Then the realization hit me! The perfect red was in the garden all along!

The day of the funeral came and my parents had come from out home in the city to attend. They were scolding me for bringing Bettie into the rose bushes because the mortician had found numerous cuts and scratches on her and it cost more to cover them up. I refused to apologise. The pastor talked for what seemed like forever, then it was finally time to lay Bettie to rest. I went first and put the painted rose on her coffin. The red of the rose looked murky and faded even though it was freshly painted. The rest of the funeral was a blur. After that I didn’t pay much attention. I couldn’t focus on anything but Bettie being in the ground and not next to me. I could feel every mile of distance.

That was the worst day of my life, yet I keep my rose despite that it’s a constant reminder of that day. After all, it’s the only real part of my sister I have left, hiding in the petals.