One AMONG MANY

Flash Fiction

Theme – Eulogy for Rose

The month of May turned 2025, stout and obese over the centuries,continuing to hoist its unwavering identity over the graves of several bygone summers; some as placid as the gentle breeze caressing the soft petals, some plagued like the landscape after a tempest, forgotten. Then suddenly, a three-decade-old past flickers and emotion germinates briefly from beneath the melted mud of memories recalling brilliant Rose.

I remember a clammy May when Mom grabbed her soaked desires, rushed out, ignoring the midday sun, and returned home with Rose. Wrapped under a crinkly, crispy brown shroud that hugged two-thirds of her, Rose was a tiny, unattractive, lean, and green thorny twig, unable to move an inch without human help. Mom made her sit at the corner of our porch. Like an obedient child, Rose lolled there the whole afternoon. With a sigh of great pleasure, Mom planted Rose in front of our porch that evening. Rose was deeply rooted in our lives. Clear dusk glazed the sky with an orange hue, and a mild breeze soothed the surroundings. I inhaled a sharp reek of the mustard cake soaked in water. The stench forced my stomach to come up to my mouth. Mom fed Rose that foul-smelling liquid and watered her bed while I cleaned myself. 

Mustard cake, once a month, and a daily shower helped Rose grow and bloom. Rose made Mom buzz with obsession. I still remember Mom huffing, puffing and hoeing the soil, fixing rose to the Earth, then scraping the sludge stuck on her hand gloves while tiny droplets of sweat gathered on her fair, broad forehead.

Mud, mulch, mustard cakes, and earthworms kept Rose healthy and happy.

Within a year, Rose grew twice my size, budding daily. She gifted our garden a countless red blooms. The honeyed scent of the silky, red, radiant blossom liberated the air. It killed all other niff. She exhibited a bouquet of crimson roses where bees and butterflies pranced merrily. Her leaves quivered to the draft. Dewdrops rested like pearls on the petals of her blooms. I always wished to pluck one of her flowers, but Mom gave strict instructions: “Don’t pluck Rose’s flowers. It hurts her.” I limited my impulse to sniffing the aroma and gently touching the petals.

One silent night, a pungent stink choked the air outdoors. The tang invaded indoors, pricking our senses. We rushed out and saw voiceless Rose sizzling in pain. Tendrils of acrid gas gulped the garden. Rose turned limp, her leaves and flowers melted, and earthworms dissolved upon her charred roots. An intruder skulked in our garden poured acid all over Rose, and left. Until this May, Rose’s furtive foe remains mysterious, gloating over the spite or perhaps rueful.

No more Rose, no more malodorous peat, left my rosy heart to grieve upon a wasted opportunity to pluck and press one blossom in my book, while Mom, in dismay, continued watering the bed where decayed Rose once respired, and now ugly wildflowers breed.

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