There Were Roses

There were roses. I'll always remember that. They hung like living drapes, red and pink, over windows and banisters. The way they wound made me think of snakes or crate paper at a party, depending on the mood I was in for that second. The breeze through the windows moved their smell toward me, reminding me to smile at this wedding.

I know that he was there in black, smiling, not noticing the roses, how they smelled, or me. Though my back was to him I could see his thick eyebrows raised in surprise at some relative he hadn't seen in years. I knew he didn't know any cousins or aunts really well because he told me. Dark nights with just me and him sitting on a bench and we would talk for hours. We were best friends. He would be kind though and hug the distant relatives, remember their names and show them his beautiful bride. With my back turned to it all, I leaned to sign the guest book. Curvy black lines appeared on the paper as my name. I was guest number 157 to sign here. One hundred and fifty seven. I laid the pen down after briefly considering drawing a horizontal line through my name; this, so they could still read the name and that its being crossed out was intentional.

Heading for the door I noticed one rose had fallen from the wreath above the door. It had no stem and I couldn't make out where it had fallen exactly out of the wreath. An urge to crush it, so hard it would have to turn to powder, overcame me. But then I became aware of how soft it was, how good it smelled, the weightlessness of it. I pushed back my hair and placed the rose in the groove above my ear, then turned and walked out.