Rose of Summer

Dear Diary,1

He left today. Just packed his stuff and went. I knew that it was coming but it seemed surreal all the same.
Maybe it's the house. Everybody moves in then they just up and leave, and it's such a nice little house. Neat and white; very white even down to its white picket fence that surrounds it.2

All summer from my window I have watched him. He would be no more than twenty give or take a few years and his body has the golden glow of someone who spends copious amounts of time in the sun. I knew that from the fact he never wore more than a singlet when he was gardening. I guess that's why I always saw him in the garden. He weeded and mowed lawns, pruned and trimmed all the bushes and flowers until the entire front yard was like a flower show. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The roses, all the glorious roses of every hue and shade. If I had my window open in the evening the sweet scent would waft gently through and surround me with its heavenly breath.3

The yellows and soft pinks, bright whites that blended with the color of the house were entrancing as were the daffodils that danced in the breeze like a chorus line neath the windows.4

I suspect he was a gentle man, no one else would have put that much time and effort into making something so wild and tangled when he first started into a pallette of beauty.5

I never saw anyone visit him or the house and I wondered if he had a family. With so much time on my hands to think I had conjured up all sorts of tales about him. On the run from the law or in witness protection with no name and no job. I assume he had no job because he was always there.6

I felt as if I knew him intimately and I know he saw me from my window. He used to wave and smile as he worked. At first I would shut the curtain afraid of the recognition but my curiosity always drove me back to the pane of glass and eventually I began to wave back.7

His smile showed an even whiter set of teeth than the painted little house and I do believe he was quite handsome in a rural kind of way. I had deduced he was a country boy, no city slicker I knew would have had a clue on how to tend to a rose garden or even mow a lawn to a manicured finish, they had professional gardeners for that.8

One time he had beckoned to me from the garden to come join him. Oh Diary, how I had wanted to do that. Rush down from my room and into his garden and into his arms. To feel those strong and rippling tanned muscles envelop me, hold me and love me as I had grown to love him. That was the day I refrained from watching him ever again and now he was gone. I would never know his name, never know where he went or what he was doing yet I felt he would be moving on to another garden. One that needed his love and attention desperately. Almost as desperately as I needed his.9

I had heard my Mother speaking to someone this morning, the sound of a male voice was apparent and my Mother's serious tones had softly climbed the stairs of our beach house. I had strained to hear what was said but my door was firmly closed and it was just muffled tones that reached my ears. I wondered if it had been him. It must have been him Diary as we didn't know anyone else on the island. I certainly had not met the neighbours and my Mother was always busy with work most of the day, tapping away on her computer. Even on summer vacation she worked. A journalist always had things to write about no matter what the season.10

Looking out of my window now seemed just a little more lonely. Even the little white house and garden seemed to droop in the warm afternoon glow. I hoped someone would water the garden for it would be such a shame to see it wither and die after all his hard work.11

My Mother made me come downstairs in the evening, she said it was important that I did. It was such a chore. My wheelchair was a difficult thing to manoevoure and even with the electronic device for the stairs it meant I had to struggle and push myself up and into that device. Life had been so much better last summer before the accident.12

You know what Diary? I am really glad this time she insisted I came downstairs. For he had left me a present! My mother said I had been right to assume it was the boy from across the road this morning. He had told my Mother about me watching him everyday and I confessed as I blushed that I had been quite the audience for his garden.13

My Mother wheeled me into the sunroom at the rear of our house and there on the table was the most beautiful display of roses I had ever seen. All the colors that had been in the garden were now on the table for me to enjoy. I was in raptures, more at the thought he had brought them for me, than the roses themselves.14

She pushed me closer to them and I became aware of the lack of scent that emanated from their velvety petals. I was intrigued and I reached for one with gentle fingers outstretched. To my amazement the feel was smooth and cool to my touch. My Mother smiled at me and handed me a note. It was from him. It read.....15

Dear girl in the window, I thank you for your constant attention. Your presence each day made my work seem worthwhile and for that I applaud you. Now as my summer draws to an end and I leave that beautiful face of yours I fear the garden will perish without my hands to tend it. So I leave this for you to enjoy for the rest of the season and beyond. A token of my admiration and my thanks. Though wax cannot capture the aroma of a rose, it will last long after the real ones have died and it will be your reminder of me.16

To think dear Diary, he did that just for me! I felt so special and privelidged that I knew I had one thing I could do for him. So I have asked Mother to wheel me over to the little white house each morning, every morning I will water those roses for him and maybe, just maybe he will return next summer and know that someone cares as deeply as he does.17

Until tomorrow dear Diary, adieu and goodnight.18

19


20