Petals And Rust

The brown, withered rose rested in my hands. My heart sank, heavy as an anchor at the bottom of the sea. I stroked a once-blush petal; it crumbled into ash at my touch, brittle and dry.

“It’s too late,” I thought.

Tears escaped, a soft sprinkle of rain just before a storm. The sun didn’t wait for me; it slipped behind the hills, pulling the last of the warmth with it.

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“We must tend to the weeds. Stop moping over that dead flower,” my husband said.

I jumped, startled — I thought I was alone. He shoved the rusty gardening shears into my hand. Another petal from the rose crumbled. My hands shook.

“Get to it, damn it,” he said.

He looked right through me and the rose, seeing only the weeds attacking the rest of the garden. I hurled the shears at his feet; they landed with a heavy thud. His eyes dropped to the shears, then snapped up to me, mouth agape. The fire inside me had finally ignited.

“You never pay attention or care to listen,” I snapped. I stormed away, my tears hot against my cheeks like steam — a salt-heavy rain that couldn’t extinguish the flame in my chest. I cradled the rose with both hands, the only thing left worth saving.