The Rose Thief

I walk through the neighbourhood, making my way to see my lover. Looking up at the clouds above, I see grey. Quite appropriate, I must say. I stop in front of a house, looking at the pop of colour on this otherwise quite dull afternoon coming from the garden. Without thinking, I go up closer to look at the flowers. I reach down to grab a few, looking around to make sure nobody could see me, before darting away, continuing on my path. It's quite a strange thing, seeing a young man like me walking alone, especially in a neighbourhood like this.

I finally reach the property where she is, and head in. I remember exactly where she is, three rows back, the fifth grave. How could I ever forget? Placing the flowers in front of her gravestone, I read it over once again.

"Here lies:

Azaria Mae Croft

1901-1920

I touch the gravestone of my lover, remembering about how just a month ago, we were expecting a baby. She was a small woman, and due to complications during the birth, neither Azaria or the baby made it. It's strange without her here, quite lonely, but there's nothing I can do to bring her back. Ever since she has been gone, I have been visiting her here, even though the walk is twenty minutes from my new house, and I don't own an automobile. I can't afford flowers, or anything really, at the moment, so I usually stop on the way to the Cemetery to pick flowers.

I step over to my son's grave, right next to Azaria, and think about what life could have been like.

I could have had a wonderful future with the love of my life, and raised a family. We could have grown old together, and had 8 children, like we had planned.

But, everything happens for a reason, right?

I turn away, and begin to head home.

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It is now a tradition. Every Sunday after church, I stop at the same house, and pick up some flowers. The owner of the house never seems to be home, so I would think that what they don't know doesn't hurt them. This is about the seventh week i've done it, and now, kneeling in front of the very colourful garden, I can't decide which ones to take this week.

"You've done this for a while now, I really would like to know what girl is pretty enough, to the point you have to take my flowers weekly?"

My eyes widen, and a jolt of shock runs through my body. I turn around to see a man, maybe a year or so older than me, standing with his hands on his hips. He was rather tall, with fair skin, and curly, brown hair. He was wearing a black and white plaid shirt, with black trousers. He didn't seem very threatening, but the way his almond eyes bore into my soul was a bit intimidating.

"Well, it's kind of hard to explain--"

"Then take me to meet her, so I can tell her where you've been getting your flowers from,"he cut me off. I didn't know how exactly to tell him why I was actually taking his flowers, so I just started walking with him, to where I was headed.

The walk seemed to go on forever, so he started up a conversation.

"So, what's her name?" he asked.

"Azaria."

"Are you two married?"

"We were engaged." He completely ignores the word were, and keeps on asking questions and starting little conversations here and there.

"What's your name? I'm Martyn."

"I'm PJ."

We walk in silence for the next ten minutes, before arriving at the cemetery. I am faintly aware of his bewildered expression, but still continue to walk. Third row, fifth stone. Martyn follows behind me, and I put down the flowers on my old lover's grave, and my son's. I turn to face him.