Mortis et Amor em Rosa

Chapter I : Rose

She's buried beneath a silver birch tree, down toward the old train tracks, her grave marked with a cairn. Not more than a little pile of stones, really. I didn't want to draw attention to her resting place, but I couldn't leave her without remembering. She will sleep peacefully there, no one to disturb her, no sounds but birdsong and the number of passing trains. Every year, on the sixteenth day of October, I walk back here to refresh the fact of the matter in my mind. She's gone. There is nothing to be done anymore, and I now have to live with that. Life wasn't always sunshine and roses for her, which is ironic, seeing how her name was Rose.

We didn't have much growing up, Rose and I, but at least we had each other. It was a rough neighborhood, full of the usual riff-raff you would expect from such places. I would've been one of them, the ruffians, the vagrants, if it hadn't been for her. Now, after knowing her for twenty-odd years, I didn't know if I could go on the way I had when she was with me.

As I hear the train approaching, I remember one of the better days we had, before 'the incident' - Wow, I can't even bring myself to call it anything except the incident right now...What's next? Calling Rose 'the girl'? I'll have to think about this further.

The house we lived in keeps flashing in my head, the stone walls, the broken toilet that never flushed properly, the peeling paint. Sure, it seemed desolate at the time, no place for children to grow up, but the place did acclimatize us to the harsh realities of life. It pushed us to want more, work harder, and try harder to get out of that house.

Being close to the fall season, the leaves now surrounding my feet are turning different shades of brown. Autumn was Rose's favorite month.

As the withered, browning leaves swirl around me; a sudden gust of wind blows them all over me. The longer I stay here, the more I remember. She was a beautiful girl, in every sense of the word. Her smile could light up anyone's day and the way she spoke, would leave you happier, and feeling like someone understood your problems. She went out of her way to make everyone's day a little brighter. And just like a shooting star, she burned bright and died young.

Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you'll find an edge to cut you. My memories of Rose are no exception.

If only I had listened to her that day, if only I'd done some things differently, if only there had been a warning sign, if only...