The Rose

She had always been very shy.

Barely you could hear her speak,

Mostly would nod, mostly in approval,

Lest she may hurt someone.

She used to withdraw herself,

In her very own happy world.

This world no one knew of,

This world made her happy.

She would fill her imaginary world

With all the things she loved.

She was named after the rose

Yet she kept her fragrance hidden.

She was barely five years old,

Yet she vividly remembers that day,

Her father asked for a rose on Father’s Day.

After elaborate planning she got one,

But was too shy to give it to him.

She kept in a cardboard box.

All her father wanted was her love,

He asked for a rose, and rose she was.

Each year thereafter, it became a tradition,

He would ask for a rose on each Father’s Day

She would get one, only to keep in it

In that cardboard box.

The cardboard box, was like a treasure chest

Filled with withered roses, filled with love.

But alas the world did not know of the box,

Neither did her father. Only thing he missed –

Was a rose on every Father’s Day.

Was for little love from Rose every other day.

Days went by, and went by years,

Every year the box had one rose more.

Yet one fine morning he was no more.

She took the first flight available,

Yet could not see him for the last time.

He lay there silently longing for a rose.

She went to visit his grave where he lay.

She mustered all courage in the world,

And kept the box full of withered roses

Just six feet over his cold body.

It was a box full of roses, a box filled with love,

It smelled like spring, he now had everything.