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disclaimer : NBC owns the characters, I own the words
note : for L.J.
SEVEN HUNDRED ROSES
by Schuyler
She knelt in front of the granite slab, her fingers, still long and slender at her old age, running delicately over deeply engraved letters; an inscription that conveyed unconditional love. The weather was pleasantly clear for this early day in May, a month where summer was on the verge of dominance, flowers were in full bloom, and two personal dates were now annually commemorated.
Placing the sacred box on her lap, she gently traced the pale patterns upon the discolored lid, a series of loops and lines recreating a once covert name.
He had known what it was.
Slowly taking off the top, and as the contents inside were revealed, a sudden surge of fear and dread swept over her like lapping waves against the shore. Her Pandora’s Box of cherished memories had now been opened up and exposed to the world, leaving her feeling alone and susceptible to greater evils. She had known this wouldn’t be easy; to have the date of his tragic death just one day after the anniversary of her liberation.. they were just too close together for her to separate and deal with individually.
But, forcing herself out of bed this morning, she was determined to do this for her eternal beloved.
She gave back all the roses, one for each and every single rose he had touched her life with, and a tear for every sincere smile he had brought to her graceful face – a visage that was once fresh and alive, doused in the brilliance of a love that had taken over her soul, and manifested upon her flesh. Now it was weathered and worn, an almost daily reminder of an old mask she used to wear.
It had been safer that way; to hide behind a false front and pretend certain emotions didn’t exist, therefore eliminating any reason or opportunity for her to get hurt. Now, it was just something she did upon instinct for survival.
Throughout our years together, from the very day you rescued me from the Centre, I kept all these just for you. Did you ever know that?
Each faded Valentine he had ever given her was stored inside that special box, clasped in a blue satin ribbon which had adorned her sweeping locks of hair on the fateful night that she was saved. Carefully extracting the treasured gifts, she placed them around his lonesome grave amidst all the roses, hoping to surround him – even in death – with the same profound love he had always surrounded her fragile heart in.
Today signified an entire year that had passed by since she lost her lover. Three hundred and sixty-five days had elapsed since the last time she had held his hand, crying as he lay upon his deathbed, victim to a cancer that had spread throughout his entire body, rendering him useless and unable to be saved. It had been foolish of her to think that even he was immune to these uncontrollable things. As she closed her eyes, her mind drifted back to that vivid memory, remembering how bittersweet his last breath had tasted upon her lips.
Shaking herself out of the reverie, a weary sigh, fabricated at the extreme roots of her lamenting soul, smoothly sailed out upon her own expulsion of air. It was time to move on, to continue living her life until this exact day returned again the following year so she could repeat the cycle once more.
She gave back all the roses, all dried with tender loving care, then thoughtfully pressed into books during their twenty-five years together. Seven hundred roses; a dozen for each and every birthday and Valentine’s Day, and a few more extras along the way, simply to say:
‘Thomas Michael Gates.. I love you.’
(c) copyrighted 04.06.00 , 01:42:08
note : for L.J.
SEVEN HUNDRED ROSES
by Schuyler
She knelt in front of the granite slab, her fingers, still long and slender at her old age, running delicately over deeply engraved letters; an inscription that conveyed unconditional love. The weather was pleasantly clear for this early day in May, a month where summer was on the verge of dominance, flowers were in full bloom, and two personal dates were now annually commemorated.
Placing the sacred box on her lap, she gently traced the pale patterns upon the discolored lid, a series of loops and lines recreating a once covert name.
He had known what it was.
Slowly taking off the top, and as the contents inside were revealed, a sudden surge of fear and dread swept over her like lapping waves against the shore. Her Pandora’s Box of cherished memories had now been opened up and exposed to the world, leaving her feeling alone and susceptible to greater evils. She had known this wouldn’t be easy; to have the date of his tragic death just one day after the anniversary of her liberation.. they were just too close together for her to separate and deal with individually.
But, forcing herself out of bed this morning, she was determined to do this for her eternal beloved.
She gave back all the roses, one for each and every single rose he had touched her life with, and a tear for every sincere smile he had brought to her graceful face – a visage that was once fresh and alive, doused in the brilliance of a love that had taken over her soul, and manifested upon her flesh. Now it was weathered and worn, an almost daily reminder of an old mask she used to wear.
It had been safer that way; to hide behind a false front and pretend certain emotions didn’t exist, therefore eliminating any reason or opportunity for her to get hurt. Now, it was just something she did upon instinct for survival.
Throughout our years together, from the very day you rescued me from the Centre, I kept all these just for you. Did you ever know that?
Each faded Valentine he had ever given her was stored inside that special box, clasped in a blue satin ribbon which had adorned her sweeping locks of hair on the fateful night that she was saved. Carefully extracting the treasured gifts, she placed them around his lonesome grave amidst all the roses, hoping to surround him – even in death – with the same profound love he had always surrounded her fragile heart in.
Today signified an entire year that had passed by since she lost her lover. Three hundred and sixty-five days had elapsed since the last time she had held his hand, crying as he lay upon his deathbed, victim to a cancer that had spread throughout his entire body, rendering him useless and unable to be saved. It had been foolish of her to think that even he was immune to these uncontrollable things. As she closed her eyes, her mind drifted back to that vivid memory, remembering how bittersweet his last breath had tasted upon her lips.
Shaking herself out of the reverie, a weary sigh, fabricated at the extreme roots of her lamenting soul, smoothly sailed out upon her own expulsion of air. It was time to move on, to continue living her life until this exact day returned again the following year so she could repeat the cycle once more.
She gave back all the roses, all dried with tender loving care, then thoughtfully pressed into books during their twenty-five years together. Seven hundred roses; a dozen for each and every birthday and Valentine’s Day, and a few more extras along the way, simply to say:
‘Thomas Michael Gates.. I love you.’
(c) copyrighted 04.06.00 , 01:42:08
