You'd think that with all my visits to botanical gardens, I'd at least have a photo of a white rose, but sadly that's not the case. so I had to find a picture online. In any case, here's another short story I wrote based on a prompt. As you can probably guess, the prompt for this was 'White Rose'. Enjoy!
Calhoun pauses, as he always does, at the vase of white roses resting on the fireplace mantel. It is that time of year again and his mind automatically goes to Seira. Contemplating the roses that she used to love so much, Calhoun realizes that she is very much like the white roses herself. Elegant and graceful, everything about her was ethereal. Just like the whiteness of the roses, Seira exuded a gentle purity. There was such a rarity about her; not many had a character like hers, which Calhoun couldn't describe, even if he tries. He never was good with words, not the way she was.
For a moment, he snaps from his reverie and wonders why the flowers get replaced every year. And then he remembers the flower shop in town that Seira loved so much; they used to go all the time and the florist took to sending them white roses this time every year.
Their love too, Calhoun muses, reminds him of the white roses. Sweet, innocent, pure; he recalls all the lazy Sunday afternoons spent sitting together in the alcove by the window. With the warm country sunlight beaming on her, Seira seemed to shine with an ethereal glow, especially with the way the light caught in her bronze tresses or reflected in her pensive gaze. Sometimes they would sit in silence, enjoying the quiet, or enjoying each other's presence. Other times they would talk, about nothing, about everything. And just like the white rose, Seira was quiet, easily overlooked, especially next to her bolder, more vibrant sisters. Yet, once noticed, she proved to be just as, if not more, mesmerizing. But just as any rose, Seira could be sharp, her words prickling to the heart. It was just the way she was. He hated arguing with her; she could be so cold and distant then, her words harsh and stabbing. It was hardly as if he was any better. He got just as angry, his words just as bitter and hurtful.
On impulse, Calhoun decides to change the water, though he's certain that they don't need changing. Still, he likes to take care, especially with delicate, ephemeral things. He knows it's futile, for the flowers will start wilting sooner or later, but still—
"Hey, you ready?" Calhoun starts, missing the soft footsteps behind him. He turns and, for a second, is met with bright hazel green eyes, but in the sudden dim, he sees that it's just brown. Dark brown. He leans down for a kiss.
"Yeah," he replies, "Just let me get my coat. I'll meet you outside." Leila smiles blissfully at him.
"Oh yeah, the flowers were delivered this morning; I put them in your vase for you." Calhoun smiles his thanks as Leila leaves. He grabs his coat off the couch and is about to follow her when the white roses catch his attention again. Today would have been their sixth anniversary. His and Seira's. A shadow passes over his countenance as he recalls those last days they were together. She was so frail then, so white and ashen-faced. Though she had all but wilted, there was still an inner strength radiating from her.
Yes, their love was very much like a white rose. Though the rose might wilt and die, its beauty and grace would forever be impressed into his mind, his heart. His rose might fade away, but he would never forget her.
Thanks for reading! As always, feedback and reviews would be greatly appreciated!