Papa’s Rose Bush

The sky is blue and the clouds painting a portrait over it are heaven. Papa calls me cotton-top; it is a nickname for my hair, which is all devoid of color and light blonde as is possible. It will not stay that way forever. Two bees are buzzing around the rose bush – Papa’s rose bush – and I toddle towards it, preferring not to head the words of my elders. I love the rose bush. Bees don’t scare me and despite my nearing their territory, they don’t bite.

“You can pick one,” Papa says from behind me. He has followed to make sure I’m safe. His voice is soft and calming, but it cracks when he finishes a sentence and there is a long drawl at times. I find it funny.

I reach for the bush, stubby fingers grasping towards a big, beautiful rose. Two fingers wrap around the stem, but I don’t pull. Papa said I could pick this rose and I want to. But this is Papa’s rose bush. He loves his rose bush. I can’t do it.

Fingers leave the rose, brushing against a thorn. The pain is momentary, quickly forgotten as I turn to face him. “It’s papa’s rose,” I say, my speech not entirely fleshed out and my sentences perhaps not so grammatically correct just yet. “Don’t wanna pick it.”

He smiles down at me, holding his hand out. I place my hand in his palm and he covers my hand with just three fingers. “Well, little girl,” he speaks to me, “let’s go inside then and see what granny’s doing.”

I never did pick a rose from Papa’s rose bush. The bush no longer exists physically, just like Papa. They have both left me behind. I hold fast to memories in their stead.