One petal dangled from the wilting rose, barely maintaining its tenuous connection to the flower. Marilyn, her honey blond locks blowing in the gentle winter wind knelt down to caress the singular petal, a single tear staining the beauty of her face as it slid down her rosy cheek. As I often did, I watched her silent vigil, smiled as she deftly brushed the snow off the few remaining leaves of the long stemmed tea rose clinging to life in the garden beside her house. This day the overnight snow kept me from going out to say hello, looking up she waved at me, knowing I would be there watching, sharing in her routine. She pulled the zip lock bag out of her coat pocket; sprinkled yesterdays coffee grinds around the base of the bush, dusted the snow off her gloved hands, the flakes sparkling in the crisp morning sunlight as they drifted back down to earth like diamonds shared from heaven. Wiping her tears away she tenderly kissed the tenacious petal and turned to head back indoors.
Taking my cue I went into the kitchen, putting water on to boil. Set up two cups, two saucers, got the Chamomile tea and honey out of the cupboard, placed the last of the Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Delights on a plate and placed them on the tray standing sentry on the counter top. The shrill sound of the whistling tea kettle let me know the water was ready, interrupted my reverie of that day not so long ago. Carefully I placed one tea bag in each cup, gingerly added a generous dollop of honey, and added the water to steep just as the doorbell rang.
I gracefully maneuvered my wheelchair through recently widened doorways of my home to the entry hall, careful not to bump anything along the way. Opening the door I let Marilynn in, she warmly smiled before bending down to give me a gentle peck on my cheek.
This was part of our shared routine.
Neither of us spoke as she whisked past me into the kitchen, I close behind. I watched as she slipped off her coat, watched as she placed cups on the tray and carried everything out to my sun room, placed it all on the table where we both could peer out through the window, see the rose bush her husband had planted two summers ago while home on leave.
She spoke first, asked me how my therapy was going, the usual small chit chat as we nibbled our cookies, sipped our tea. Her strength always amazed me, her will to carry on helping me in my own path of healing, my quest to again be whole. I listened, watched for the tears I knew would come. She glanced out the window at her rose bush, the one I'd help Rob pick out at the nursery down the road as a gift for their third anniversary.
Turning back, that singular tear again rolling down her cheek she smiled weakly and then began too speak, "Tell me again about the roadside bomb, I need to hear again the last words he spoke to you as you held him in your arms."
