The Rose

The soft snow crunched under her feet as she slowly made her way through the glistening white sheet covering her driveway. The quiet of the usually busy neighborhood made the sound of each step echo loudly in her ears.

"This is dumb," she scolded herself as each step drew her closer to the mailbox. "There aren't even any tire marks in the snow. There will be no mail." Yet she felt compelled, even driven towards the stack of red bricks standing erect under the blanket of white snow.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The warmth of home fell further behind with each step. The process was like a step deeper into the cold regions of her heart. Three days had passed since her mother's funeral — three dark, cold, miserable days. Three days alone. Even the weather agreed there was nothing to be happy about — the overcast sky a dismal grey for the last week, casting long shadows over her very soul. Snow started falling on the way home from the gravesite and hadn't let up until this morning.

Cold wind, not a hard wind, just a constant one, tugged at the opening of her coat as if inviting her to play – an invitation she rejected. In return for the rejection, the wind bit at her cheeks, nose, and neck. Instead of pulling the zipper together, she drove her hands to the bottom of her pockets. An onlooker might think she was attempting to push through to something warmer opposite the foundational pocket stitching as she held the two sides together. She knew she was only pressing into darkness.

"Sweetheart," she could almost hear her mother's soft voice correcting her through a thick accent. "The zipper is your friend. Use it."

"I don't want to, Momma," she answered the sparkling silence surrounding her. She didn't mean to speak out loud to the noises in her memory, and the sound of her own voice was not preferred over the crisp hum of the wind.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Even the snow seemed to mock her current condition. Peaceful. Beautiful. She felt neither within herself. With the fall of each step, the snow beneath nearly groaned in grievance against the feet treading upon it.

"Oh, so rude." Her mother's words were once again loud in her ears. She could hear them as clearly as the day they were spoken over the dinner table not very long ago. So much had changed since then; it might as well have been a lifetime ago. "You have been given a gift, child. You need to embrace it."

"Yes, it's a gift. Just because it's a gift doesn't mean I have to like it, Momma."

"Always the sassy one, this one," facing the plate in front of her, her mother scoffed to no one in particular. Then she lifted her head, eyes locking with eyes as if to convey her deep displeasure in a mere glance. Yet speech still fell from Mother's lips, a discord on her unruly daughter's choices, "When will you stop being so sassy?"

"Twenty thousand dollars for two years of art school is just too much money. Money we don't have." In her own rebellion, she had stood up and moved the few steps to behind her mother's chair, leaned down, and gently kissed the top of her head. "I want to grow up and be just like you, Momma." Then she turned and made quick work of the walk to her bedroom, knowing full well her mother was both irritated and blessed by her words.

She reached the end of the driveway and turned to face the little black door, dreading the cold steel handle against her barely warm fingers. Knocking snow from the top bar as she pulled it toward her, she knew she would find inky emptiness mirroring the inside of her heart. As more light crept into the darkness, she was startled to find an obstruction to the expected emptiness.

The thick black book was not wrapped in an envelope. It just sat inside the mailbox, lonely and cold. What it lacked in height, it made up for in width. It was a 6x8 book, but it was about 2.5 inches thick. She stood, stunned, a few moments before she reached inside to touch it. The fear raced through her that she imagined the sight. Or lost her mind. Or both. She pushed it away as she reached inside to prove both ideas were false. Numbness setting in her fingers made it difficult to tell if it was actually leather cover or just imitation. She was unsure she had ever been as grateful for oversized pockets as she was in that moment.

Trekking back to the house was much quicker than the journey out had been. Curiosity, and probably cold, perked up her pace. She opened the front door to the whistle of the tea kettle she left on the stove before heading outside. She kicked off her wet boots and ran to turn the fire off before the water boiling over put the flames out. Once her coat was hung on the hook to dry, she poured a cup of blueberry tea and sat on the edge of her oversized chair to examine her find.

Turning the book over in her hands, she found there were no markings other than slightly worn edges and the elastic band holding the book closed. It was clear this was an older book, though well cared for. Carefully she slid the band from its resting place and lifted the cover. A loose page slipped from its resting place. She let the cover drop closed again, leaving only part of the paper exposed.

There was just enough displayed for her to see the curves of lettering on the top side. Even with just the edge of a few letters, there was little question of what she was seeing. Sitting before her was her name written in her mother's hand. Controlling the trembling in her hands was nearly impossible as she pulled it free from the notebook.

Carefully she unfolded the page. "My dearest child," her momma wrote. "I do not want to see you waste the talent you have been given as I did. You want to be like me? No. I want you to be better than me. I paid the money for art school. Go. Create. Live. I love you, Momma."

Her hands trembled as she lifted the leatherbound cover once more. Slowly, she allowed her body to sink against the back of the chair. It was as if the first page was all she could take in.

Before her was the charcoal outline of a single open rose. How many times had she watched her mother sketch and throw away that very image? There was a distinct edge, as noticeable as her accent, in how she drew each petal. The stroke of each line giving away the artist's love for the delicate flower. The book had been her mother's sketchbook, a testament to her unfollowed dream.

She closed the book and set it on the side table, next to her cooling tea. Art school. So many questions she may never have a satisfying answer to — mysteries as uncertain as the snow falling outside her window. Only one thing was not mysterious to her at all – the love of a mother, even after she was gone.