Rose Leaves

As his last resort he pleaded Rose, if not for him, come for me. Her eyes turned moist. The sorrow that spread across her face drew even him into her gloom. The sorrow spoke of a defeat that was long resisted. It was clear that Rose would not make this long-awaited journey to the distant town where Prince had arrived.

Time passed as each held their gaze on the other. He sensed in her gaze a distance, and even a distaste. The bus for the quest hinted at movement. Rose turned to leave. She departed with pace, making her rejection loud and resolute.

Later through the window as he stared into the distance, he recollected who Prince was, recollected his epic promises. In fact, it was only by counting on this quest did Rose and he endure their lives. But quickly, other thoughts crowded his mind — thoughts about her baffling retreat. Could she have felt the weight of a requisite that wasn’t there? Or, was it possible to fear even relief? Burning tears gushed down at some point.

A few miles in and he left his seat and asked for the bus to be halted. Many around him understood the situation. They immediately and eagerly communicated their caution . . . resist that temptation, consider the cost of what you’re giving up, Prince will heal the agony of separation, and the likes. One of them grabbed his arm. Little did they know that a cord tethered him to Rose and the farther he went, the stronger was its pull.

The vehicle lingered silently, giving him time to reconsider. Many mournful faces stared at him. He could hear them no more, but they continued their persuasion with ached gestures. A few minutes later he saw the bus dissolve into the far mist of the horizon.

As he carried along, the weight of his heavy heart drooped his shoulders. His lack of resolution was not helped by the heat. Even Rose’s sickness will now be eternal, he thought. In his mind her face appeared — and it wasn’t the face of her youth, but the fragile face of fatal disease. Who can reverse it now! So troubled he felt by these thoughts that he rapidly lost his spirit. Rushing to the shade of a tree, he collapsed into a deep slumber.

He woke up disoriented. Raindrops knocked on his face. Piles of dead leaves surrounded him, and he was under the arrest of an unexplained angst. When he gathered his senses, he found the weight of the day’s events to be far reduced. The dampness in the air provoked a dampness in his soul — a strange indifference propelled his steps.

The streets were deserted and silent. Perhaps more people had taken up the promising quest, he thought, as he hastened to the house which he was sure he had left forever.

God knows how he ended up on the street to Rose’s place. Must have been the habit of his limbs, for he had barely lifted his face. Or maybe the cord that bound them still compelled his core. Coming in the vicinity, a sharp pang of curiosity struck him, and he helped himself to the familiar alley. At her door he observed footwear, seven, maybe eight pairs. That many was uncanny. The shoes were scattered as if their owners had left them in haste. And immediately he was possessed with an ominous thought.

Rose, he cried. He felt his heart rise up to his throat. He barely had a say in his instant bolting through the doors. The reflexes of deep friendship had overcome his will.

Few people, his eyes scurried. He saw them far too quickly to register who they were, but he surely knew them. His searching gaze stopped at Rose, seated sideways on a chair, her chin calmly rested against its back. She received him with the mildest acknowledgement. The expression she was wearing was completely incomprehensible. There was no surprise either in his arrival, or in his savage manner. A misplaced normalcy reigned in the room.

Rose’s gaze returned to where it was before the interruption. As he followed it, his eyes rested on the splendid traveller who had recently arrived. A modest canvas was spread across the floor, and kneeling on it, the man was painting leaves after leaves — and the leaves were the most green, the most real and the most alive. As he beheld one of them, he was healed.

Suddenly, the mystery of Rose’s appearance was unlocked to him. The expression was simply of joy, and a face of joy he had never beheld before. The sound of rain loudened in the background. A thought took form, and didn’t just appear, in his inner being, and the thought was judged to be the most trivial. The thought was that if he could not leave without Rose, how could he think that Prince would. The empty seat, that was his, beaconed at him. He promptly occupied it, joining the others in waiting for Prince to finish his creation.