November Rose

 © 2007 Marta Stephens 

The wind howls past my window today. Dead twigs bend with its force while withered leaves flutter past in a rippling movement along the ground. The day, washed in shades of gray beneath a pale sky, signals the coming of snow.       

The family will be here soon with their casseroles and deviled eggs; pumpkin pies, and apple desserts. Yet my thoughts drift to the daughter who passed. The sounds and smells of an early spring morning rush back; my senses regress to a time when my heart didn’t weigh and her smile still brightened my day.       

It’s Thanksgiving morning—four months since and I cling to the threads of a fragile faith. But I’m human, and my humanness grieves. It doubts, it cries, and it pounds on the table in anger. It pleads for answers; only silence echoes its harsh response. Weaving between questions and prayers, doubts crush my soul. How I ache for the scent of her hair.       

“The turkey is ready. The yams and green beans are steaming hot. And yes! The rolls are out of the oven,” I call to my husband, as he slowly goes upstairs for the extra chair.        

The table is set with just the essentials. No flowers or candles – not even a single pilgrim sits upon it today. No cause to celebrate – not this year.         

“Mother, Dad, you two sit there,” I hear myself saying, “and Grandma, I’m sitting you here at the end.” Where the high chair once sat. The words cross my mind, and swell in my throat.         

“The butter’s on the table, but we need some ice,” I say, as I rinse off a spoon and glance out the window above the sink.        

What’s that? Something catches my eye. The towel slips from my hands and drops onto the counter. That fleck of color, there in the flowerbed beyond the gate. I grab my sweater, no time for a coat – just brace the cold. I tell myself. Run!       

The wind catches the door as I rush to save the last rose in the bed. Bewildered I gaze up and ask, “Is this your only response to my prayers? This bit of life in the midst of winter?”       

 I wait a moment clutching the bloom to my breast. Then a quiet voice in my head replies, “Yes.”         

A sign. A rose out of season. A symbol of life when all seems to perish and a promise of hope when none is apparent.  

The November rose briefly adorned our table that day. It eventually died, as all living things must. But, the rose bush grew back in the spring. It flourished and blossomed again. And since that day, so many years ago, His message of love returns each fall as I gather the roses of late November and give thanks once more.   

THE END