The bulb sat in the centre of her hand, dry and yellow, like the pages of an hundred year old book. It was lighter than she expected it to be, as though all its weight had left its body, just as its vitality had.
It didn’t smell the same either. The delicate, sweet aroma had been replaced by a scent that was too bland to even be worthy of a name, closer to air than anything else.
Once, the rose had meant something to her. It had been more than a flower, it had been special and unique. The petals held themselves differently to other roses, slightly open, like a hand ready to hold her heart. But now, it was nothing more than the memory of those white, wet petals beneath the summer sun. Their love was dead.
She moulded her fingers around the rose head, slowly, savouring every crackle, leaving her hand full of meaningless, yellow dust.
She blew it away…
in the direction that his feet once trod.
The petals floated away like a dandelion seed. She wished that he’d never come back.
Copyright: Laura Davis © 2017, all rights reserved.