Winter's Rose ▫️T. Lupin

▫️ Ten

A few days ago, if anyone asked Rose Jones about the worst day of her life she wouldn't have an answer to their question. Ever since her grandmother had died, though, the answer to that question couldn't have been more easier than having someone ask her her own name.

The day of her grandmother's funeral was the worst day of her life.

Many people had gathered to say their final goodbyes to Martha Jenkins, wife of Christopher Jenkins, a man that had died way too young at a car accident and had left her to take care of their daughter on her own. Martha had been many things while she lived; a loving mother and later on, grandmother, a nurse that always tried her best and sacrificed herself for her patients, a friend and companion for the few older residents of the area. She had been a person Rose looked up to as she grew up. If it weren't for her grandmother, she wouldn't have been the person she was today.

Tears didn't fall as she watched the coffin with her body inside being placed in the ground, even though she could hear her mother bawling her eyes out beside her. Rose accepted the condolences of the people that had come and then returned to the house with her mother. After the funeral, her mother withdrew in her room and they didn't communicate at all for the rest of the day.

The next morning her mother found her sitting on a bench in their garden with her coat on, her hair loose as she let the wind carry it wherever it pleased. It was cold outside and she didn't stay with her. She only gave her a note her grandmother had left for her a few days prior. It was a letter meant to be sent to her at school but in the end, she had never managed to send it.

Rose had read all of it there while sitting on the bench in her garden while her mother was in the house. She had read all of it with her vision blurry but no tear fell until she reached the part of the letter concerning her grandma's flowers.

The winter roses are growing and blooming, my dear. I know you're going to love them when you come home, they're simply beautiful.

Remember when you were little and you'd ask me about flowers? Even if you don't, I do. Your parents decided to name you Rose and you always came to me asking whether your name fit you. I always replied that it did but I never explained to you why.

I think the winter roses I've planted are like you, in a way. The flowers and you are beautiful and delicate upon first sight. Despite their dainty appearance, they bloom during winter and can withstand the harshest of winds, remaining strong while other flowers wither. You're like the winter roses, I think, because you've gotten through your fair share of hardships in your life yet you still bloom and you've become this beautiful young lady I have the pleasure to call my granddaughter at this point.

I honestly don't know where all of this came from, I thought about it while tending to the flowers in our garden. Maybe I smoke too much in the end.

Rose could read no further and after days, she cried. She hid her face in her legs, the letter held tightly in her hand as she allowed herself to let her sorrow reach and disturb the surface of her blank exterior. After that, she didn't return to the garden. Her mother went out to take care of the flowers but she didn't. They reminded her of her grandmother, and at this point, any mention of her was too much for her.