The Things in Life: A Collection of short stories, poems, songs, and more

White Roses {short story}

It was the summer of 2009 and I was just a kid at the time, but I remember everything happening like it was yesterday. A cliche line, I know, but the memory was so vivid that I find it kind of hysterical that I'm able to remember the details as clear as I can. I was walking down the street, with no noise but the quiet wind and maybe the one or two cars that would pass by every once in a while.

I had gotten bored of just sitting on the front porch and I decided to go explore. I had been walking for a while when I came across a field of flowers. Not just any flowers, but white roses. It was like something out of a painting. It was rare for us to see any exotic piece of nature in our small town, so to see those roses was like getting to see a blue moon. At first I was too scared to touch them, out of fear that I would do something to make them disappear. Then I made small steps towards them, careful not to step on them. I touched one admired the true beauty that they truly were. For the rest of that week, I would visit the site of the roses, to see if anyone else hung around them, and to my surprise, no one did.

For the next couple of weeks, the garden of roses was my spot. I went there when I needed to clear my mind, get creative, or just admire them for what they were. I did my best to keep that spot to myself. It was the only place that I felt the safest, that I could call my own. After all, some things are just too beautiful to share to the rest of the world. The roses gave me a peace of mind, a sense of hope, and an unattainable sense of uniqueness that I never thought existed. It was if as though I discovered something so grand that it hurt to think what would happen if anyone else knew it was there.

When the month of August came around, I would often see people around the area of the roses. Not too many people, maybe four or five, but enough to raise my suspicion about there intentions. I didn't think too much of it, as they never seemed to be doing too much harm. Just talking and I guess they seemed just as astonished as I was cause they often admired the flowers just as much as I did. Soon though, they stopped showing up, so I deemed that spot as my own again. Soon however, that changed.

When Fall rolled around, I noticed that those same people returned, this time, in hard, yellow hats, and massive metal tools. I wondered what could they possibly be doing with all that equipment. As any rational person would assume, my mind went straight to the only logical thing that came to my mind right then and there. Construction. I panicked and wanted so bad to tell them to pick another place to build whatever they needed to build. I didn't care what they needed to do, just not there. However, adults always scared me, as silly as it sounded, and I kept my silent objection to myself.

As the season continued and turned into winter, little by little, my roses, my safe place, my sanctuary, was being taken from me. And little by little my heart hurt. When the weather cooled and the roads iced over, the construction took a halt, and that meant I only had so much time to get one more good look. I admired it for what felt like forever, before I walked away from that spot one last time. When the beginning of spring came around, and they finished construction, I got a good look at what had become of those roses. Right where that beautiful garden once stood, was now a flower shop. At first I resented that place. I hated looking at it. Hated the people who left with happy faces after making a purchase from it, and I especially hated the elderly lady who owned the shop. Then one day, I saw something bewildering.

Right there in the front window, was a small bouquet of flowers. And not just any flowers, but white roses. Bright ones with the greenest stems. So I gathered up some money and made my way to the shop. I happily made a purchase and thanked the lady with the biggest amount of gratitude that I could muster. I took them home and sat them neatly into a clean vase. I took care of them like they were the most delicate things that ever existed. Until one day, they were no more.

They were no longer a delicate white, but a brittle brown, and I felt heartbreak all over again. So I sat and cried as dramatic as it sounds, and mourned over those flowers. My peace of mind, my sanctuary, my white roses.