The little things

White rose

Most girls wish for red or pink roses or beautiful bouquets of colourful flowers.

I wish for a single white rose.

It's beauty and simplicity are inspiring.

It can inspire words and art and music.

And that is what it does in me.

It inspires these very words.

And inspires the music that I write.

But the girls who wish for the other flowers laugh at me.

They think that nobody wanted to give me the colourful flowers.

So all I got was a white rose.

But you see when all their colours mix it becomes a mess.

Especially because the amount adds up and there is never enough space.

With a single white rose, it is alway simple and beautiful and there is always space.

But you see the people who buy the flowers.

For some reason they all go for the mass amounts of colour.

Even though it's expensive, they somehow believe that it will impress.

So nobody ever buys me a white rose.

And because of that I become lonely.

But I would never trade my white rose for company.

But I also became ill.

I spoke to someone recently.

It was a conversation of importance.

And they, though a stranger, understood more than anyone.

And though their understanding was kind, it was their understanding that allowed me to do it.

And now I am dead.

I did not kill myself because of loneliness.

I died because of my illness.

But their understanding and kindness allowed me to die in peace.

Not feeling guilty for the favour I asked.

And all those who laughed at me, and ignored me, and didn't care while I was alive.

They bring their masses of colourful flowers and lay them at my grave.

They say how much they care, and how much they miss me.

Except if they really cared, they would know I hate the colourful flowers.

And after everyone has left a boy comes along.

I've seen him before, wandering the graveyard.

He would tend to people's graves.

But not giving generic flowers.

Each grave he visited was given something different.

Something specific, something unique.

And at my grave he removes all the colourful flowers.

He puts them all in a basket to be given to someone who cares for that sort of thing.

And he smiles.

He returns and lays something down at my grave.

I do not particularly know this boy.

But every week he keeps his promise.

Even when he is old.

And when he is too old he passes the tradition to his son.

Each generation to the next, the kindness of this one stranger boy continues.

And now his grave lays next to mine.

But every week on my grave lays the same thing.

A new sheet of music.

A new poem.

And a single fresh white rose.

2.5.15