A Withered Rose in the Hands of a Prince
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There once was a beautiful rose, of undefinable color. It grew in a field among grass that grew gold. Under a sky so blue painters envied the flawless color. The field went on for miles and nobody knew of it except me. It was mine. As long as I can remember that rose waited there in that field. Untouched by anything other than the caring eyes of admirers and the loving hands of its caretakers. I spent so much time there, admiring, laughing, sleeping, and being myself. The rain fell on its petals sometimes, and the sun shone upon its face. Such is as life should be.
I remember one day I went to the field to find solace in that beautiful untouched sight. I walked through the tall golden grass and came to the sacred spot of my soul. I looked but I could not find the beautiful rose. It was as if it never existed. I felt empty of the loss of such a sign and such happiness that it gave me. I did not cry tears for there were none for me to cry. I walked away that day confused as to what had changed and why the rose was taken from me.
I kept coming back to the spot, wondering what had happened, every day knowing it would be different, that the rose would be there. Sometimes admits the grass would be a wildflower that has ended up here and I had never noticed before. Each time I though it to be the rose. Each time I was brought down by the knowledge that it was not. I should have known what had happened. I kept making up stories and excuses for the rose so I would not be hurt by its departure.
One day I met a man on the road he held in his hand a beautiful golden cloth with blue embroidery almost the color of the sky. This man had red clothing and seemed to resemble an animal, a cougar perhaps in his grace and the fierceness of his eyes. I stopped to talk to the man and he seemed nice enough although a stranger. I asked him what he held in his hand and he held out the cloth to show me. Amidst the gold so like the grass where is once was, and the blue almost the color of the sky is once laid under was my rose. IT was withered and seemed to be dying.
I asked the man how could he take such a beautiful possession without thinking of what it would do to someone that he might not know. He then told me that the rose had asked to be picked and taken away, it had seen the man and wanted to go with him. He wanted to be free for a while and see what was beyond the golden field before being planted again.
I could understand. It hurt to know that I was not enough for the rose, that I could not keep it the same forever. I knew I would miss it and what it showed and gave me for the rest of my life. I also hoped I would see it again.
I knew that the prince would take good care of my rose. I knew that it would keep it safe and help it through whatever problems it would have. I knew that it would show it everything it wanted to see and probably a few things it didn't. I knew but I still wished it could have been me.
I looked once again at the rose and its withered state, it seemed to be having trouble adjusting to the new surroundings however similar they seemed to be. I closed my eyes and kissed the rose lightly and my tears feel upon its face just like the rain, and my eyes shown with such love the light was just like the rays sun.
Such as is life should be.
I said goodbye
~
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