The Borrowed Rose

I never wanted him to give up anything for me. But there he was, sitting on my front stoop again, there like he always was. Same lazy stare under unneeded black glasses…same black fringed scarf and hat. He looked like a tortured french artist. He ran his hands through his ebony hair and sat up when I walked down, batting his hands free from the leather gloves he had on. 1

We said nothing as we walked along the streets, our breaths frigid and frozen in the warm air. We passed a Starbucks and he ordered a double latte with some caramel thing in it. I don’t know what exactly, I always told him it would rot his teeth. I remember so well how he’d raise a slender eyebrow at me, the paper cup to his lips. He gave me the ‘just because your father is a dentist doesn’t mean I give a shit’ look.2

Snowfall in the city is like ringing a giant gong that announces the sales going on in stores in Times square, just in time for the holidays. 3

We walked across central park slowly and sat down on a park bench with fresh snow licking up its sides. I sighed as he took out his sketch book and began making exaggerated motions across the paper so that the lines of charcoal he made seemed rudimentary and out of place. It also made him look like a pro. I called him a show off at least ten times a day, and I rolled my eyes at this and focused my attention on a few blades of grass sticking out of the ground. See, we don’t have many green things to begin with especially in winter, so this little blade caught my attention. 4

He looked up at me and frowned. One of those stupid art-college-kid frowns. But I don’t suppose you’d know what those would look like, do you? 5

I sighed again and he said, “What?”, as if he was trying to concentrate and I was a rude eleven year old. 6

“I’m screwed.” I said, pulling my maroon cap down over my ears. 7

“Just because you can’t write right now?” he asked, going back to his drawing.8

“No…its…well…yes” I said, frustrated.9

He chuckled, which was a sore sight for his stony expression. “Babe…what do you do in your free time?” He asked me, his grin putting me off guard.10

“Um…” I said, taken aback. “I study…and I write…but every thing is always crap…and I study…yeah…that's it” 11

He cocked a knowing eyebrow at me. ‘Sweetheart…I think you work to hard. That’s why your writing has been shit lately. Your mind isn’t all there” he said lightly tapping on his head with a finger. “You can see and feel things other people can’t…and you can put them in words. That's what makes you a great writer. It’s never gonna work if you heart isn’t in your work.” he said. To my surprise, he got up, leaving his empty coffee cup on the bench. And then…he looked at me like he never had before and tore the page out of his sketch book. he crumpled it up and tossed it to me. 12

“Here.” He said to me. “Take this…you can borrow what keeps me going” He said, walking away.13

I can remember sitting there as I watched him head toward the subway with the drawing in my hand. It was a rose emerging from a fresh bed of snow, and in cursive script, my name circled the rose like a halo. I can also remember feeling a hot pang in my throat…the same feeling I get to this day.14

He died yesterday. Of course, all of this happened two years ago. I’ve got a publishing deal now with a company and everything. After that little experience I tacked the picture on my wall over my keyboard. The same night an idea that grasped me came to mind and I started writing. That ended up being the one listed in the “New York Times Bestsellers List” the next year.15

Anyway…he died yesterday. I missed the funeral, since I didn’t find out about it until two days after he was buried. I felt guilty, and I wondered how I became so absorbed in my own life that i forgot who made my life worth it.16

I went to the graveyard today. It is Winter again, but now every road is covered in black snow and icicles are melting off the roofs of apartment buildings. I’m not sure exactly why I decided to go visit the grave in the first place. But on my way, it became clear to me. I had to give back what he gave to me…17

On the way I visited a vendor, overrun with wilting poinsettia flowers from Christmas, and bought a single red rose.18

Later I left the sorrowful place, leaving my borrowed rose behind.19