Blue Rose Cottage

As the last dying rays of sunset struck the cracked window, Jane pressed her nose to the glass. Inside she could see dust motes dancing in the beam like tiny fairies on the summer solstice. A ballet of hope performed on a floating stage. The old cottage stood alone in the field… seemingly lonely, forlorn, abandoned… just like her.

Stepping back from the window, Jane took in the scene. The rose garden her mother had planted was overgrown with weeds. Yet, despite the encroaching stranglevines, a single rose bush sprouted. On its stems a single blue rose. Her mother’s favorite.

Tears caused Jane’s view to shimmer and blur. Stepping over to the bush she lightly ran a fingertip over the petals. Their softness felt like a fond memory. Jane could picture her mother humming a lullaby as she tended her beloved garden. Her hands digging in the rich soil, planting seeds, pulling weeds. As the sun sank behind the distant hills its horizontal prism of light illuminated the solitary bush in a soft halo. Jane closed her eyes. She could see her mother kneeling there, sifting black dirt through her fingers; bringing it to her nostrils to inhale the scent of nature’s bounty. Without knowing how she had gotten there Jane found herself mirroring the memory. On her knees, fingers digging into the ground, tilling the soil; trying to breathe life, growth, beauty into her cold world.

Bringing a handful of soil to her face, Jane inhaled deeply. The loam smelled like her mother. It smelled of comfort, pain, love, heartbreak. Rising, Jane wiped her palms on her jeans. A wistful smile crept unheeded onto her face even as tears rolled down her cheeks. This solitary rose, blooming amidst the ruin of a dead dream signified her own journey. Surrounded by creeping invaders sucking the nutrients from the ground under its roots, it yet managed to draw life and beauty from the devastation. If only she could do the same.

Turning, she looked at the cottage. It’s walls were overgrown with ivy, shingles were missing from the roof, and the door listed to the left. It was a mess. Yet, Jane saw none of that. Instead she saw her mother standing in the doorway, hands on hips, laughing as her little girl gamboled in the yard running pell mell after a barking puppy. Welcoming warmth streamed from the entryway behind her like a promise of home. As Jane watched the phantasm called out, “Dinner time honey. Come on now,” before turning around and fading into the misty past. Waving the hallucinatory fragments away, Jane stepped up onto the porch. The boards creaked, but felt solid enough. Tentatively she inserted the key into the lock.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Waning evening sunlight streamed in, low and soft. Her father’s recliner was still there. The chair where he would sit under the oil lamp reading fairy tales to his little girl. Where he would sip his coffee on a cool winter morning. Jane could see him there, his adoring little girl in his lap pestering him for just one more story. A story of a lost princess finding her true love and being whisked away to live happily ever after in a beautiful castle by the sea. If only she had known that this simple cottage was better than any drafty castle. “I love you Dad,” she whispered.

Next to the cracked leather chair was a small end table. On the table, a pipe. Jane reverently picked it up. Her father’s favorite pipe, still here. A tiny hint of cherry tobacco, an olfactory ghost, tickled her nostrils. The world fractured into a shimmering kaleidoscopic whorl of ghostly memory. Jane wiped her tears on her sleeve and set the pipe down. “Okay Dad…, Mom…, you win. You were right. Jason wasn’t the one. You tried to tell me. Dad, you were always right. If only you were here to tell me what to do. Mom has been gone five years, you three. But.., I need you.”

A breeze whispered across her ear stirring her hair. She felt intangible fingers stroke her cheek. A feather light kiss ghosting on her forehead. Ever since Jason had left her crying in the shattered remains of their once beautiful life, Jane had searched for a place where she belonged. She had been bereft, alone, wandering. Then, two days ago, on the third anniversary of her father’s death from cancer - six months after Jason had left her for another woman - she had pulled out the old family album. Sitting at the dining table she had opened it randomly. A breeze had gusted through the open window, rippling the pages. Jane had risen, closed the window, and returned to her chair. Looking at the album she saw it had opened of its own accord to a page with pictures of the old family cabin. Now her cabin. In the center of the page a picture of a happy Jane at ten years old standing with her smiling parents in front of this very abode. “Okay,” she had whispered. “I hear you.”

Now here she stood, surrounded by memories of her happiest days. Here in the one place she had always felt safe, loved, happy. Here where she would rebuild her life watched over by two loving angels. “Don’t worry Mom. I’ll weed our garden and nurture the blooms. Both mine and the flowers. Dad, I’ll be okay.”

###############################