Two Roses

The routine was sacrosanct. Every morning, I would tend my garden beyond the peak of perfection. I would water the plants, like a mother feeding her child. I would pull out every single weed and cut the yellowing treacherous leaves. I would put bushes in order and cut their tumors. But my most prized plants were the roses. They peered over the wall, proudly standing, telling the outsiders what they were missing, flowing with the breeze, each in its own symphony.

But there was another routine, equally sacrosanct. A boy, about eleven, would come up close to the roses, bold as a cliff, and wickedly snatch two beauties from the bush. This happened every Sunday, probably because he had school on other days.

I don’t know where he came from and I don’t know where he went. There was just one road passing in front of my gate. He came from the right side, made his theft, and continued on his way, towards the left. As far as I know, there were some bungalows, an orphanage and some shops on the right side and a playground and a cemetery on the left. I always suspected that he went from his home to the playground.

I actually remember our first conversation crystal-clear. He was plucking two roses while I hollered at him.

“Oi! you! Leave the roses alone you imbecile!”

“Why don’t you get them yourself old-timer?” was his reply.

These series of plucking and protesting went on for four years until, all of a sudden, he stopped coming.

I felt happier. My efforts in the garden won’t go in vain. The boy probably used to tear the roses apart and throw them. I continued to tend my garden and without interruption, my roses thrived with content. They woke up with due on their delicate petals and slept exhausted from nodding at the passers-by.

Time is an introvert. It walks mile by mile without anyone’s knowing. It doesn’t wait for someone to catch up. Ten years passed by, but the boy didn’t. Then, when destiny desired, something remarkably close happened.

A man, about twenty-five, youthful and handsome, came from the right side of the road, all clad in a blue tweed blazer. He caught my acute attention when he stopped in front of my gate and looked at the roses. Then he approached the bush and plucked off two roses and walked on to the left side, disappearing from the view. All this while, I was inside my house, my hands in a newspaper but my eyes on the man. When he had left, I kept looking at the place where the man had been. I brought my gaze down and realized that I had been clutching the newspaper too hard.

My mind ventured back to all those years and now, it wondered.

“Suppose, just suppose that that man was... no. It was too much for a coincidence. And anyway, why would he go to the playground?” I tried to pacify myself with logic. Nonetheless, my heart couldn’t bear it. So I threw the newspaper, grabbed my walking stick, and set out.

He had covered quite some distance and I kept on walking. I had to know the reason. The purpose. I kept walking. The playground came in the site. Obviously, the man wasn’t there. My arthritic knees began to hurt. But I kept walking. It was then that the cemetery came in sight. Sight. What a sight.

All my senses had gone numb. Only my eyes kept open, administering what they had seen. I felt nothing. Except for grief. And remorse. Burning grief and remorse that came out of my eyes, running across my cheeks, along the path provided by my wrinkles.

The boy after all those years stood solemnly in between two graves.

A rose on each.