White Roses

I walk down that lane, everyday looking at that very house which stands in its glory. It was one of the most beautiful houses I have ever since but never a beautiful home.

I see a lady sitting there, peering over the broken window. Expecting, hoping for someone to come inside.

She wears a huge, round spectacles, moving it now and then around her face to see things more clearly than it was before.

I see her everyday walking down her garden, flowers so beautiful, that you don't want to pick them but watch them grow to the fullest and wilt away, and letting nature take its course.

She taught me so many things in life, from being kind to being positive. She told me that patience was a virtue which can never be learned all at once but something you carry on with you.

She always spoke about her son, who she misses a lot and longs for his return. She tells me that she was spoiled like a little princess by her husband and son. She remember those memories with tears in her eyes.

I once walked by her garden, looking around the garden. They Seemed happy, unlike the home. They seemed promising, of joy and love.

I think about the white roses, which blooms every now and then and how she treasures it like her own children. She talks to the flowers everyday. About how much she loves them.

Sometimes I see her smile through the broken window, as if a guest had finally arrived. She is a mix of emotions from dusk till down. Confusing us to whether we should knock on her door.

And on days when I don't see her, I roam around her garden and the broken window. Only to see her reading a book or catching a nap.

They were monotonous, the way she spoke. The way she walked. The food she eat. Everything was timed and never a second late.

It's like she taught herself to be like that, to carry yourself in monotone and never anything more than that.

I have never seen her angry, the only two emotions I saw were the constant sadness and a wavering happiness.

It went in circles, a little more on the side of unhappiness and a little less on the side of happiness. It wasn't drawn in patterns which could be changed every time but it went in an unchangeable figures. Making us feel concerned.

People still talk about her, and how her son never returned from war and how lonely she was in the mansion with broken window.

But no one talked about how someone can make her day by showing up with a cookie nor flowers. We live by things we can never identify ourselves with but always see others with.