Roses

On Sunday morning the house seemed normal, except that mom wasn’t there. When Dad answered the door, his shirt was untucked, and he had small streaks of dirt on his face. I’ll never forget how confused he was to see me despite it being a Sunday. We exchanged our usual loving words while he almost reluctantly stepped aside to let me in. I followed the familiar path to the living room that mom had so carefully decorated with photos, mostly of me. Dad never really liked having his picture taken and seemed content to have mom fill it with photos of me, Mom, and his roses. He would always say that it was “A wall full of the most important things”.

The aged wood floor creaked beneath my feet, and I sat on the edge of the couch cushion, not wanting to stay long and hoping he wouldn’t notice, but he didn’t and offered tea. I almost declined but he was already in the kitchen, so I gave in despite Mom and me having plans. Dad handed me tea in one of my favorite mugs, no tea bag, and the smell was something that made my nose wrinkle. I don’t normally like almond-flavored tea, but he must have forgotten. He kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn’t looking and tried to keep the conversation light. I asked where mom was and if she forgot it was Sunday, but he didn’t answer me and changed the subject. The doorbell rang, and He quickly told me not to go into the backyard, “thorns everywhere, wouldn’t want you getting stuck”. There was a look in his eyes that I couldn’t place, but before I could try, he was already on his way to the door. I quietly placed the mug on the solid coffee table before looking out the window behind the couch. Dad’s current project was half-planted, and the area of upturned soil seemed too large. Something shone in the earth, like he tried to bury a piece of the sun. It lured me out of the house, disregarding the thorns that littered the patio. The closer I got, the more unsettled I became. Almost like the deepest recesses of my mind knew something that I had yet to discover. The damp soil did a poor job of covering what he had done. The hands that made all of my birthday cakes and wiped my tears now protruded from the soil. My mother’s wedding and engagement rings that were so carefully kept were still on her now pale, lifeless hand.

My memory of that day has the unique ability to rip me from wherever I am and pull me down like a weight in a lake laced with eternal dread.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”.

“Of course,” The detective makes a deep sound while clearing his throat. He takes a deep breath that strains the buttons on his shirt. “How long has your father…grown roses.”