The Story of Us (Camren)

Roses

You told me you loved roses, so I promised you one per day.

And I kept my promise. At first you laughed, took the flower with a goofy smile on your face. But as the days passed by, and your collection became extensive, I think you realized just how much truth rang in my words.

I started to get creative; I left the flower in your bathroom, just beside your toothbrush. Or in the kitchen where it would lay on the table, alongside a plate of my pancakes that you never seemed to like. I can’t blame you though; they were always burned to a crisp.

Of course, my task was easy while we were together; and I suspect that you thought I wouldn’t carry through while we were apart; but I proved you wrong once again. I remember getting your call, it was two in the morning my time, but if staying up meant getting to hear the smile in your voice, I would never sleep.

I remember our first fight. I remember how you’d screamed so much my ears began to ring, and your green eyes turned gray. I remember how you’d grabbed the vase on the table – the one with all of your roses, and you’d thrown it so hard towards the floor. I remember how your breath had steadied immediately, almost as if you took comfort in standing over the shattered glass, and the water puddle building on the kitchen floor. You’d mumbled something and then you were gone, and I thought that the door had slammed before you even moved. That was how quick you were gone.

It only took me a moment to realize what you had done. I dropped to my knees and grabbed at the shards, causing them to cut my fingers ruthlessly. I still have the scars. But I grabbed all of the flowers and rushed them to the sink and washed the blood from my hands and grabbed a new vase from above the refrigerator and I put it back on the table. The new vase with the roses looked just the same but the water and glass was still on the floor.

I hadn’t expected you to come back, but you did. I can’t remember the time, but you crawled into bed with your shoes on, and I pretended like I was sleeping. You took my bandaged hand and pushed the hair away from my face and you were whispering in my ear about roses and glass and the blood on the counter and then you kept saying sorry, but when I opened my eyes you weren’t facing me. Were you apologizing to me?

When I woke up the next morning you were still sleeping with your shoes on, so I slipped out of bed as silently as possible. I jogged down to the store on the corner and bought your rose, and I set it in bed next to you. I went back out to the kitchen and the water and glass was still on the floor, so I decided that I’d clean it up. I was almost done when I saw you coming down the stairs, flower in hand. You didn’t say a word; you only kissed the rose gently and placed it into the vase along with the others. If I’d been someone else, and there weren’t 21 roses in the vase, I’d have said something. But I was myself and there were precisely 21 roses in the vase, so I stayed silent.

I remember the day you noticed the first dead rose. You took it in your hands like it was radioactive, and I smiled.

“It’s dead,” you had whispered.

“Is it now?” I asked, frowning at the slightly drooping petals.

“It is,” you confirmed. “What do we do?”

“Throw it away,” I answered simply.

You had narrowed your eyes, but shrugged, and tossed the sad flower into the trashcan.

The flowers began to die, but a new one would always take its place. There was no doubt of that.

Years later, when you got sick, when we got home from the hospital, the first thing you did was take a rose from the vase. I watched you inspect it, lightly touching each thorn with the pad of your finger, pulling gently at the petals and sniffing the deeply colored flower.

“This one is my favorite,” you said.

“Why?” I asked, trying to scrutinize the now particularly interesting flower. There was nothing different about it.

“Because you got it for me,” you answered, and you put it back in the vase.

“I got all of them for you.”

“Yes,” you said. “And all of them are my favorite.” You took another rose out and pointed to the petals. “This one is slightly lighter than the rest, and it’s my favorite.” You took another one out, and pointed to the thorns. “See this thorn? It’s pointing upwards, and the rest are pointing downwards. It’s my favorite rose.” You went through the entire vase, personally selecting each flower and naming something special about it. They were all special. And they were all your favorite.

When you got sick, I think I got sick too. Not in the way you were, but I was sick. I hurt so much, Lauren. It felt like my heart kept breaking, and breaking, but some days I felt like there was nothing left to break. It was like my heart had broken into more pieces than it was made of.

You didn’t like when I came to the hospital, but I did anyways. Every single day, I brought your rose. I woke up every morning just to see you smile, and place the rose in the vase next to your bed. Sometimes, when the hospital staff was feeling extra nice, they would let me stay later than everyone else. And I would fall asleep in my chair by the bed as you told me your favorite thing about each of the roses.

When you died I think I died too. Of course, my heart is still beating, but some days I wish it wasn’t. I was on my way to your room when the doctor stopped me in the hallway. He pulled me into the corner and I gripped onto your rose so hard the thorns cut through my fingers. I nodded as the doctor spoke, but I didn’t know what he was saying. I pushed past him and I ran to your room, but your bed was empty. The vase still sat on the table, the roses untouched. I could barely breathe, but I set the single rose I held into the vase and picked it up. There was a small card underneath.

Camila,

2,142 roses. And they’re all my favorite.

-Lauren

I still buy your roses, Lauren. I’ll never stop buying your roses.